My darling Miss Pen-Pen, how I do so adore her. She’s the little sumo-cat of our household, and isn’t afraid to throw her weight around if needed. She truly is a queen, speaking up when she’s ready for a snuggle and somehow -you- haven’t given her one yet. She does have a tendency to get demanding at times.
A sumo for a queen… now that is an interesting thought, is it not? Its like the daughter of a 1950s mob boss that everyone compliments and so forth, even though in reality she’s no drop-dead gorgeous bombshell: she’s twice the size of a house and happy for it. So long as the situation didn’t change, she’d never have reason to doubt other than what people have told her either, would she? While not exactly entirely true, you get the picture. My Pen-Pen is a queen and a sumo to boot.
Onto an entirely unrelated matter… I got my parchment yesterday! I’ve now officially got my little piece of paper saying ‘Look world, this person has actually completed a Masters of Arts and Creative Industries Management, and she’s done it in such a competent manner that we’re willing to say she somehow knows what she’s talking about. Yay her.’
It’s kinda a funny feeling: I have it done, completed, finito, and there’s nothing left to do. I’m not sure if anyone else feels that the receipt of a piece of paper to say ‘Really, I know what I’m talking about,’ is as anti-climactic as I do… but it does tend to feel that way to me. You finish your course, you wait almost five months, and finally some small woman comes a-knocking at your door and says ‘Sign here please.’ You do as you’re told, you open it, and this piece of paper really isn’t all that more impressive than the last one (I’ve done this three times now).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have it – but it’s almost as if finally getting it is mocking in nature. ‘So,’ it says to me, in a wheedley little voice, not unlike that weasel little tell-tale in the school yard most of us have doubtless encountered. ‘So, it’s been almost five months since you have completed me, and what have you done? Hmm?’
Here am I, wide-eyed, stuttering out an ineffectual response. ‘Well, I, umm, I was waiting on you before, you know, I, um, got started on anything? Or something like that?’
The parchment snickers knowingly, a gleam to it’s silvered seal as it glints in reflection of the somewhat dim fluorescent bulb. It’s almost an accusation. ‘Ohhh, but you have me now,’ says he, ‘You have no excuse left! What are you going to do, hmm, what are you going to do?’
With a barely uttered grunt of disgust I glare at my parchment, and fling it in a drawer with the others. That’ll teach it to have a go at me!
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