I spent 15 minutes this week searching for cheap flights to the Falkland Islands.
These are the lengths I’ll go to in order to appease a persistent infant.
The possible Falklands excursion came about as a consequence of Lucy’s latest infatuation and a little white lie from myself.
Cats are the flavour of the month with my daughter at the minute. Like penguins a few weeks ago I have no idea where this notion has come from. ‘Daddy, I want to have a cat’ is a sentence a hear on an hourly basis.
Her favourite cat, the one that gets the cream, is Hello Kitty. She’s also developed a penchant for what she disturbingly refers to as ‘cat milk’. The shops call it Strawberry Crusha, but given the cat on the bottle, Lucy felt the need to rechristen it.
If only real cats were more like cartoon cats. I can’t imagine Hello Kitty or the Crusha cat using my back garden as a toilet.
Not that I’m a big fan of dogs, but at least when they deposit their waste, they do so in a handy to pick up shape.
Cat poo is akin to rancid pâté. On Sunday I found four deposits in the garden which have left a lasting impression on my nostrils. Although I cleaned it up without getting any of it on my person the smell is lingering two days later. I think it’s purely psychological, which is typical of cats, getting inside your head and messing with your mind.
As I went about my business removing the cat’s business, Lucy begged, “Don’t clean it up, daddy, maybe the cat will come back to get the poo and I can have it.”
In this very column I slagged off my wife for buying a cat scarer which emits a sonic screech to deter the troublesome felines. I goaded her to the point she removed it from the garden and hid it. Now I’m eating humble pâté.
‘What’s this got to do with the Falklands?’ you ask.
Well, the other day I happened upon the two imps up to no good in Lucy’s room.
Lucy has a map of the world on her wall made up of a series of coloured stickers and Ben was standing on a chair so he could reach (and pick off) the Falkland Islands. Rather than stop him, Lucy was egging him on.
I read the riot act, woe-betiding them not to remove any stickers from the wall.
“Don’t ever let me see you try to pick the Falkland Islands off again,” I shouted.
“Why not?” asked Lucy.
Dazzled by the question I spurted the first thing to come into my head. “Because that’s where all the cats come from,” I said. I suppose my intention was to cause her to defend the Falklands from any subsequent attacks from her brother. Instead I opened up a new can of worms.
“Daddy?” asked my little girl. I knew what was coming. “Can we go to Falkland Islands so I can have a cat?”
The answer the first time was ‘No’, as it was the second, third, and 17th time, although I have to admit I find it funny when she tries to pronounce ‘Falkland’ and it sounds like a swear word.
So began my research into flying to the Falklands. It’s looking like a two-day trip with a minimum of six transfers. I haven’t even begun to look at prices.
The great thing about kids is, in a few weeks Lucy will have moved on to something else. She’ll no longer want a cat and the provisional plans for the trip to the Falklands can be cancelled.
I’m hoping the next craze is for unicorns. In toy form they’re easy to get hold of and the chances of one of them taking a dump in my back garden are slim to none.