I have apparently been "staycationing". Which is odd, as I wouldn't have been "vacationing" what with being one of those frightful British people who get inordinately annoyed about Americanisms, ulcers bubbling away on hearing "Can I get" instead of "Could I have" and stiff upper lips quivering at the thought that most software will heartlessly brand such beautiful words as "honour" with the Squiggly Red Underline Of Wrongness. But obviously some sub-editor somewhere didn't like the sound of a "holistay" so merrily staycationing I have been.
So I was in Devon, celebrating my birthday by going to someone else's birthday party and making her guests sing Happy Birthday to me despite none of them having a clue who I was, and doing a number of other British holiday cliches like attempting to eat an ice cream before the pelting rain turned it into a pavement-based gravelly soup. One evening, as there was a blissful lull between the terrifying humanoid screeching of the seagulls and the equally terrifying racist mewling of the locals, conversation with the young chap turned to the new house we will be imminently squatting in, and the pet cat who will be accompanying us into this brave new world of thirty years of debt and likely squalor. This cat doesn't exist yet - well, it probably exists somewhere, and seeing as we want to get a rescue cat, that must mean that I'm hoping it's getting horribly abused in some way right at this moment, which is obviously completely true - so it will need naming when it eventually comes to pass, and here are a few ideas we came up with.
1. Steve, Dave, Wayne etc - I was always taken with the idea of naming a cat after a builder, purely because I like the juxtaposition of it sauntering in in a slinky, feline manner and me going "awright, Dave?" in the voice of Garry from EastEnders. Always a danger I would kill the little bugger by getting a little carried away and feeding it too much tea with five sugars.
2. Odin's Beard, Gandhi's Hairdryer, Voltron's Vector - because I will never be proficient enough at the double-necked guitar or own enough sequins to actually be in a gothic-space-prog band. And I did nick the middle one from Robert Rankin. It's tradition, or an old charter, or something.
3. The Punishment, Destroy Him! - especially if the cat is weak, declawed, and a pussy. Cat. Pussycat. *fail*
4. Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem - by far the winner in my non-rested eyes, this is if we manage to cobble together a bushel of cats. One would be the leader - Dr Teeth - and the rest would be only known collectively as the Electric Mayhem, and would skulk around in beautiful synchronicity, to a soundtrack of '50s bebop, clicking their little claws and occasionally freezing in flamboyant jazz poses. Picture it. Come on, just picture it. Nothing better.
I'm sure that when the time finally comes to welcome a fluffy pile of goodness into our good hearts and shitty home, we will be overwhelmed with mediocrity and name it something like Socks, or Sooty, or Manfred Mann. I will keep you posted.