It's been a while, hasn't it...?

I haven't posted a new blog in a while.  Not because there haven't been some exciting things happening, but because for the first time in a while I didn't have that burning need writers get to write down.  While I don't consider myself a writer, I love writing.  It practices not only my vocabulary (which I don't get to use much at the shop), but also my handwriting.  One of my hobbies, and especially for my assignments, is Calligraphy - can you imagine what a bad name I'd be giving myself with ugly calligraphy??

What got me thinking about this post is one I read originally on Single Dad Laughing.  I'm not re-linking the page, so Google it, or go digging in one of my previous blogs ("Read My Stuff!" much?).  And I hereby apologise if it's something I've spoken about before, but I feel I need to write about it.

Although I'm not a screaming queen, I am gay.  I'm the "passive" partner, and that's all I'm saying about it.  I like to date slightly older guys (even if it's only a few weeks or months) and I have been in a relationship with J for almost five years now.  He's eight years my senior.

When I came out, things were a bit more difficult.  It was still in the lower half of the early 2000s and we lived at that stage in a little town in the middle of frikking nowhere (almost literally - the only way to find it on a map is to look for Umtata and then follow the line of the R56 to the west).  Amma was the manager at the local Pep at that point and as such saw most of the townspeople regularly.

in 2001 we came to Cape Town to visit my uncle and his family.  While we were here I opened up to my cousins about being gay (I'd told my mom a few months before that I was bisexual - a sad thing is that most gay teens say this to try and make it better, myself included.  I mean, you're still loving someone of the opposite sex, aren't you?).  Anyway, at some point before my mother was appointed I posted in a pen-pals request to the People magazine, and then almost immediately I forgot about it.

Again, if I've blogged about this before, please ignore this post.

A few months later, completely out of the blue, my mother storms into my room and asks me, "WTF??"  Apparently, People Magazine HADN'T forgotten about my posting and had published it in that week's issue.  If the neighbouring shop's owner, Adie, hadn't asked her about it, and if she hadn't gotten an odd phone call about it, she'd have been clueless a while longer.  Anyway, they new it was me by the name I'd used (my middle name) and the post box.  Silly me, I'd thought nobody read the People and that I'd be safe a little bitty longer.  Anyway, she gave me the number left by the caller, and Adie seemed OK with it, and then other people asked and such and such.  I didn't deny, I just kept deflecting the attention.

Amma spoke to Appa about it not long after that.  I asked her to tell him because I'd seen how he went on when gays came up on TV.  There was a fight.  The "pastor" was called in not long after that.  It became a little bit of a joke.

What I'm trying to get at is how much lighter I felt having been "exposed" like that.  Now people knew about me in one way or the other, and I didn't have to carry such a weight anymore.  No, Appa didn't like it one little bit, and there was a point where we couldn't have a decent conversation with each other.  No, no fighting, really, just a bland, empty series of conversations that never did anything to our relationship.  But we made up after I'd been in the cape a few years, where we got to the point of actually being able to say to each other that we love each other.  It's amazing to me how much better he and I get along now than we did when I was at home, in those years when children and their parents are usually supposed to be closer to each other.

I'm grateful for it, and will always be.  With all the ups and downs, being gay is probably the best thing that could have happened to me.

How to learn things; or, Just let it Frikking Happen!

As shocking as it may seem to people, I am not a very happy person.  Or maybe it isn't so shocking.  I'm not sure.

I stress and I worry, nine times out of ten for no reason than the possibility of danger.  I get so caught up in what MIGHT happen that I forget that, nine times out of ten, nothing actually happens.

So, that said, I have been working on latting myself be more positive.  It hasn't been easy, and I want to sit here and blame my childhood and all the moving around that we did and where we stayed and and and.  In fact, I made my 37th move two weeks ago and the stress has been killing me.  Up until the move I was making stupid mistakes in the shop, my memory's been shot to scheisse and I haven't slept properly, as in, waking up feeling fully rested.  Add that to how quiet the shop has been and increased travelling costs and all in all, you have one VERY stressed out Leo.

But you know what?  I have a roof over my head.  I have the means to get to and from work.  I have clothes to wear for my work, and I work.  I earn the money doing something.  As it were.

It's difficult to explain exactly how the change started happening, the "happy" one, I mean.  I tried the Secret approach for a while and nothing happend; I took Postulancy classes, and yes, they helped a little bit, but not as much as I'd hoped.  Rephrase:  not too well on their own ( I'll explain lower down ). My cards, and using them to help others, were always a huge help, but even they stopped helping.  Or rather, Life, real life, this long, terrible, boring thing in which we work for peanuts, terrible bosses ( or just terribly disorganised bosses ), odd hours of the day and in some cases little to show for it, got in my way.  The corporate world, in so many ways, is just one big giant leech to make other people, often people you've never heard of, rich.

And, by Goddess, I let that get in my way?

Well, forget that.

My name is Dieter.  It comes, by slight change, from the 5th Century Germanic Theodoric.  Do you know what it means?  Ruler of the people.  And by the Mother, I will be a ruler of people.  Mayhap not a literal ruler, but I will lead by example and try to improve the world around me with smiles, real ones, not the ones you wear when your world crumbles.  I've been wrestling with my emotions for a while, and I'm making the concsious decision to be more upbeat about life in general, more trusting in the ways that matter, and more open to happiness.

I say all of this because it took a random tarot reading to get me to see what was wrong.  The long and short of it is that I have to let go of the old ideas I have aobut myself.  I have to shake off those bonds and let myself rise like the Phoenix does and burn my way forward.  I'll Transcribe the reading as soon as my line at home is up and running, but suffice it to say it really made sense.

I asked the Reader, a proper tarot witch, what I had to do to get started on that path, and she flat out told me, I need to be more confident in myself.  Time I am, eh, what?

So:  SMILE, BITCHES!!  It gives your face something to do and will affect your mood for a while.

Issa Friiiidaaayyy!! No, Sundaaayyy!! Ag, whatever...

Friday's are usually a good day.

Usually.

However, I just discovered that the right-hand screw for the lenses in my glasses has vanished.  On top of that, I can't just replace it, as last year this particular screw had to be drilled out of the frame after breaking and replaced with a non-standard screw.

Fuck.

So, Superglue it'll have to be.

I just tried to pay the deposit for my new pair of glasses, but I can't trace the Account Name for the people making them, so I can't really pay the thing off my banking account.  This means a trip into a bank to pay the deposit, with queues and strangers and all sortsa k@k.

Double fuck.

Oh, vell.  Ve have to do vot ve have to do.

On a more positive note, it's SUCH an amazing day out there.  We don't have any outside windows, but the centre's built in such a way that we can see out the balcony door and our neighbours' street-side window.  (Precious, please kill that gesanik you're playing - again!).

Shame, I have to share this.  It's half funny, half sad, and I'm going by what I remember of the report.

Some really rare Needletail has only been spotted 8 times in the last 187 or 178 years.  The last spotting of this particular Needletail was in 1991 - 22 years ago.  Now, recently, one was spotted by a group of birdwatchers who naturally got really excited at seeing such a rare flapper - and then almost died of shock when the bedamned fool flew into a wind turbine and died.

Does that damn fool know how close some of his fans came to dying?  Probably not.

It's been established that I know how to speak Feegle.  For those NOT in the know, it's the language of the Nac Mac Feegle in Terry Pratchett's "Hat Full of Sky" and "Wee Free Men", amongst one or two others.  I suppose that's what you get accused of when you suddenly have a full conversation with your friends in Orang-utang half an hour before bed at night.  Isso funny!

Right, so this is now Sunday.  Not Friday anymore.  Friday is, like, so two days ago!

Things that went through my head this morning between getting up, taking the bus to work, getting into the shop.  This morning did NOT start out all that well and I shall explain in due course.  Amongst other things.

First things first.  Last night into this morning were another of those non-sleeping sessions.  I'm running on the fumes of my fumes, yet I'm coping much better today than I usually when my sleep cycle goes awol on me.  Anyway.  I mistimed getting done, and as I ran around trying to find my head, I noticed a few things:

1)  I didn't repack my comb yesterday;

2)  I didn't pack my work shirt for today - thus, I'm wearing a scarlet red T-shirt under my black jersey over black skinny jeans and black canvas slip-ons.  I look a bit dark really...;

3)  Going back to the comb issue:  my hair was in a bun over last night, so undoing it this morning really required a comb.  You know, like the one I didn't pack?  The only solution was to comb it out as well as I could with my fingers and roll it into an even tighter bun;

4)  I didn't sleep, as I've mentioned, and the ost sleep I got over the Friday/Saturday night was maybe two hours.  BIG maybe.  Now my fumes' fumes have fumes.

I barely got my hair looking tidy and my arse in the car;s seat when I clicked something else:  I'd been in such a rush with Julian I'd left the fur coats on my teeth.  Naturally, the fur coats were the first thing to go when I walked in the shop this morning.  Thank goodness we have a kitchenette-type thingy in the back of the shop.

Some developements have arisen around the shop.  They're closing us down at the end of September, when the lease plus its notice of vacation expire.  I don't know what will happen to me yet, but I will keep you updated as it happens.

Hitting the Woodbridge Island stop on the way in this morning I saw a soccer player going through some training in the near-pitch-darkness.  Right on the grassy piece next to the side of the road, doing hopping squats and such like.  I don't know what the things are actually called.

In other news:  I'm getting new glasses.  As soon as I've paid off the order.  A whole R 300.  Am I a miser?  No.  I simply havent been able to get to an FNB to pay the order.  Which is valid for three months from time of consultation.  I missed the cut-off the last time I had my eyes tested.  In my defence, though, I only wanted to change the frames - the new glasses will be completely new, from frame to lenses.  She's finally giving me single-visions that I certainly have to wear when I'm reading ro on a computer, and optionally in day-to-day activities like walking, watching TV at night, etc.

Anyway, this is me saying, "Bye for now!"  I am kis and I want to start getting the shop sorted out for tomorrow.  I just realised I have an empty space on one of the shelves, but I'll leave a note for Gladys saying that I'll refill it tomorrow.  WHY AM I TELLING YOU THIS!?  You have nothing to do with this.

Go and enjoy your day!

Love you

Colour. Just colour.

Yes, you read that a-right.  I mean colour, whereby we used to eat only the insects that had dull shadings and not the the bright markings; that we use to paint our fingernails and faces with the best match to our skin tones; with which we decide which types of eyes we like our men to have (or girls, for you lesbians and straight guys).

I often get so caught up in the tiny little things that sometimes (oft-times) I miss something that's right in front of me.  Again, I mean colours.  Have you ever stopped to really think about how a colour makes you feel?  Therapists of different media all use colour, in some way or another, in their practises.  If you look at the normal, 1980's style doctor, such as I grew up with, you see that his bottles of pills and medication were all of different shades of brown or blue or green, sometimes even the odd clear one.  Then we move on to colour therapists, who use combinations of colour according to you personal preferences to affect a "healing" in whichever area or areas of your life are in need of it.

Let's discuss this a little bit.  Think of blue.  What do you feel when you think of blue?  I personally don't like it, and yet it seems to be one of the most common used colours in clothing, sometimes shoes, make-up and various bedding sets.  To me, as a cool colour, blue is cold.  It's the colour that brings to mind for me the days when you either had a fire at night or you died like a freeze-dried bug.

And then, suddenly, you get different shades of blue.  OH, MY WORD!!  Different shades of blue!?  Hell, yes.  Turquoise (it's a blut, not a green), aquamarine, skyblue, cobalt blue, midnight blue, electric blue, navy blue.  There's still a whole list of blues to go through, but I don't know what it is, so go look up for yourselves, you lazy bunch!  Just joking, I've added a link to get you started here.  If the link doesn't work from here, you'll have to Googlepedia Blue and start off at Wikipedia.  The buggers have to have provable sources for every article, so start with the Wiki, and if it seems you can get somewhere with it, use the sources as a diving board.

Right, enough about blue.

Do you have any idea how beautiful your skin looks to me?  That unblemished Coffee-and-Cream of certain of the local tribes, where you feel you could drink the owner of such skin and have enough leftover afterwards for the world to share some.  What about the pale and freckled look?  I LOVE IT!!  My friend JM is a ginger and he has the most amazing freckles and his hair isn't a flat-out "ow! my eyes"  as people are wont to expect.  (Red hair, by the way, is an evolutionary adaption whereby certain bodies were altered to form the red-hair gene.  Since Vitamin D is formed in the skin by the interaction of Solar UV radiation and one's skin, it does turn a flaming red.  This simply means (from what I can remember) that the body has very suddenly produced too much vitamin D and might be storing some for the .  If you don't catch my drift, let me try and simplify:

One day long ago everybody was blonde or dark-haired.  There no redheaded people anywhere to be found.  So Genetics, in their inner wisdom, plotted and planned a conference discussing what they can do to help their bears.  Some of the ladies at the conference were pregnant.  It just so happened that these ladies all came from the northern territories of earth - think Vikings, Scots, some Irish.  You know mos.  So, Genetics got to work on these ladies and changed their babies' skin cells around a bit.  Now, bear in mind that the Northern Teritories have little to know sun for months at a time.  The Genetics pulled a gene here, pushed a gene there, and nine months later, when the babies were born, they had the first red hair.  Their beautiful red hair and pale skin mean that, in the places with the least sunlight, they'll always have the greater advantage when it comes to Vitamin D production.

In 60 years redheads will be extinct.  All due to genetic diversity and the mingling of the races.  I can honestly say, if I'm still around and I never see red hair again, i will be heartbroken.

The first time I ran...

I wish I could say, "The first time I ran a race", but that was when I was seven and Heavens forbid I have to relive those terrible memories.  School athletics days will NEVER have a fond memory in my mind.

No, this is the first time I ran away.  Like, from my manager.

I will admit it openly now.  I am rather embarrassed by it.  But as it stands, I officially ran away from my manager by not coming in to work yesterday.  I didn't lie when I told her I haven 't been feeling very well lately and that I wanted to rest; I just didn't tell her that I also needed a rest from her.  She's really draining in such a non-subtle way that it's amazing anyone can ever work with her.  On the other hand, mayhap that's why she ran the shop alone for so long - it isn't that they couldn't find anyone to work with her, maybe the Universe was telling them no one was ready for her yet.

So what does that make me, then?  An experimental toffee?  Some days it feels like it.  Things are so quiet here it gets ridiculously boring.  It even affects my studying and reading during the few times I don't need to study.

Do you know what the stinker is?  When Madam was ill and then off for her church conference I made close to R 30,000 worth of sales, with a few follow-ups from those same customers afterwards.  I mean. how amazing is that?

Aaaaannnd then she's back and all the customers disappear.  Seriously?  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot - what's the big idea?!

 Oh!  But then, Monday and today, we had real shiners.  Monday Gl and I are sitting here, doing our thing (me reading webcomics and she doing her puzzles) when this woman barges in here talking a mile a minute about Pan knows what and eventually, after five or six minutes of this vocal bombarding, she slows down enough for me to realise, oh, wait, she wants some of our stuff for a gay exhibition of products (her words) for the end of July.  I then, as per my job, explained to her that she actually needs to speak to the Warehouse because I'm not allowed to authorise loans or exhibitions of our products at all and they might.  She then asks who to speak to and I, again as per my job, explain that it's basically whoever's there, but speak to M and he will then direct her to the person of the moment to speak to.  Does she not get harregat for that?  "Who do I speak to?" she says again.  "Martin," I reply again.  "Who do I speak to, Dieter!?" she asks really snobbily, and I just-just manage to keep my cool and tell her, "Martin."  When she asked again I used her own tone of voice on her.  The dumb bitch immediately stands up, looks me in the eye and says, "You're an arrogant little fucker, aren't you?"

Ken jy vir my?

"Well, then so are you," I say.

She turns and walks out, muttering about me being an arrogant little fucker the whole time, and I'm just, like, "Have a nice day!"  She walks around the corner and doesn't shut the fuck up about me all the way past the shop, even nodding at me at one point.  Of course I returned the nod.  What pissed me off is when the stupid **** tore up our brochure, instead of just leaving the thing or something like that for someone who actually wants it.

A bit earlier on the same basic thing happens.  A gentleman comes in from Zabad and says he likes our planters, blah blah blah, who can he speak to?  I give him the same story I gave the lady:  speak to M, he's authorised to work with phone-in clients and direct their calls and queries as he may.  The dude then asks, who's the owner of the company?  At this point Sylvia stood up and told him, as per our jobs, that we aren't allowed to give out their names or details under any circymstances, that he will have to speak to M.  The man looks at us and says flat-out, youre the first company ever that don't want to give me the owners' names.  We explained, it isn't so much we don't want to, we aren't allowed to.  He then went on about how he deals only directly with companies' owners because he negotiates special rates and trade discounts with them and so forth and such a wind, then he handed us back our brochures and walked out.

I only have one thing to ask Deity:  I've now worked twice this week, and both times I've had a customer get funny.  Goddess, is this going to be the trend for the week?

Some things that can be discussed, some that shouldn't, and why I forgot my knickers this morning

Gooooooooood mooooorrrrniiiiiiiiinnnnnngg!!

How is everyone this fine and lovely Friday morning?  Today's date, in case you're reading this later on, is Friday the 17th of May of the Julian calender year of 2013.

Hee hee!  Rather a mouthful, innit?

Gosh, had another restless night last night, so I do apologise beforehand for any spelling or grammatical errors you pick up.  As Xsjana says, often it's caused by stress, but I think last night was caused by a mixture of stress and excitement.  Let me explain:  Things are a bit on the stressful side for me because a part of my salary is made up out of commissions for pots I sell.  I'm not sure of the exact percentage, but it isn't huge.  I have reason to complain about that.  The centre we're in (Cape Quarter Lifestyle Village) is rather quiet nine days out of seven.  The most successful store here is the Gourmet Spar downstairs - if I have it right the only Gourmet Spar in the country.  IF I have it right.  Lately the CRAFT moments have been increasing in frequency.  Luckily, I almost always have a notebook on-hand in case I really feel I'll miss or lose something important out of my sieve, and there's more than enough scrap paper in the shop for those annoying little "In Case" Factors that have to be taken into consideration.  Anyway, in a normal month, the absolute BULK of my salary goes into just getting to work.  In Table View that didn't bother me much, but living out in Dune Fountain means that I have to take a bus two hours before I start working, and by the time it picks me up outside it reminds me of a tin of anchovies.  At least sardines have some dignity.

Anyway.  I'm not trying to seem ungrateful; I'm just highly frustrated.

On that note, it's now time for the exciting stuff.

My friend Cawyn works for the Cape Town branch of Amazon.com.  Yes, can you believe it!  But, before you get too happy about being able to order from them, etc, I'm going to have to burst your bubble.  The CT branch deals exclusively in customer queries and such-like things.  I've asked my tjom for details, but it doth appear she be preoccupiedified.  That's cool, I have a whole blog to catch up with this stuff on.  Anyway, Amazon apparently recruit over the June/July period.  I'm holding thumbs in a BIG way.  Yes, it is in Town again, but at least I'll be earning enough to justify the work.  And as my friend tells me, there's lots of room for growth and promotion.

From what I understand, the selection process involves tests, one of which involves being able to understand the different American accents.  I think I would do quite OK - I mean, we do have MNet at home, and most movie stars nowadays are Americans.  Right?  Neh?

LOL.

Time for some things that shouldn't be discussed.  So, why, you might ask, am I discussing them?  Ag, sommer because I can.

What is it that shouldn't be discussed?  Easy:  Sex-related jewellery.  <Snicker!>

Yes, sex related jewellery can be quite interesting, as I've recently discovered.  There's such a variety, and while much of it has the same basic function, some have minor details or addtional thingies either added or omitted.  Take, for instance, the cock ring.  It does exactly what it sounds like it does.  It gets worn (in "common" forms) around the entire base of the penis:  the upper base of the shaft and down the sides and lower base of the scrotum.  Damnations.  I'd love to post a pic, but since I'm using the shop's Mac, I really can't take that kind of a chance.  Not that there's anyone else staffing the place since Tuesday.  Madam was off sick Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday, and had already booked yesterday, today and tomorrow off for leave for a church conference.  So all the sales have been coming to me.  Can anyone say YAY! with me??

Anyway, back to sex talk.

You get quite a variety of cock rings.  The simplest is a detachable rubber ring that only fits around the base of the shaft to maintain an erection after it has been pumped up with a pump.  It restricts the flow of blood out of the penis and thus keeps it hard enough for anyone who has erectile dysfunction to... well, function.  Another version has little "beads" all around the ring of it that press in as knot would press in a length of strangling-rope (morbid, I know, but the only workable model my brain could grab at).  Don't ask me what the beads in these single-layer rings are actually for - I'd rather not lie.

Speaking of beads, you get a funny little beaded sleevy thing for the penis called a stroker.  I think.  I'm looking it up on Google Mobile quickly...  But how this is worn is over the shaft only, and it's a rather wide thing, and the beads are there to help one stroke the penis better.  I've been thinking that, as soon as I have some spare dosh, maybe I should buy and try one.  My feline curiosity doesn't seem to want to let go of this one...

I saw an image of a cock ring design to hold pack a foreskin not long ago.  (Naturally, I was doing a Wikipedia search to learn about these things).  It doesn't look too comfortable, of the image is anything to go by.  In fact, it looks like the mouthpiece of an emergency CPR breather without the bag over.  Those little wings just do NOT seem right...  <shudder>

I've been hearing quite a bit on cock rings with built-in vibrators and I saw one the other day (not, I realised, for the first time, either).  The one this place had was made of pink silicon, I suppose since the number of people allergic to latex is quite high.  The vibrator part is this odd little pill-shaped piece hanging off the bottom of it.  Looking at it, I'm guessing that sits under and presses into the prostate.  Has anyone here ever used one before?  I'd like to know what the experience is like, please.

Sticking to the down-low, a very close friend of mine has been talking of possibly getting a Prince Albert.  For those not in the know, a Prince Albert (or PA) is a penile piercing running through the eye of the penis and out the bottom edge of the glans.  This is also called a cock ring, so if anyone ever speaks or asks about a cock ring, be sure they know the difference between the literal ring and the PA piercing.  I said that ultimately it's up to him.  Penile piercings apparently heal quite fast, and I know another friend of mine got his and was told not to use his schlong for a week or two, but he hooked up with someone that same night, and a few condoms later everything was still a-OK.  What are your views on genital piercings?  Personally, I'm completely neutral, so long as the thing doesn't make impede biology.

Right, I believe I mentioned knickers... or rather, a lack of knickers.  Simply put, J and I overslept a wee littley-bitty this morning (remember the sleepless night?) and when the alarm went off made the mistake of snoozing it - twice!  So, at 5.55 am mom-in-law knocks on the door to wake us, since the alarms failed.  OMG!  I'm up and out of that room so fast I didn't even raise dust.  Hair washed and teeth brushed, I teleport back to the room and get dressed, nicely shirt and a new pair of sock and all that jazz.  It was only when we were half-way to Table View that I realised, Oops - no undies!  I didn't figure any into my extreme-speed getting done.

Oh, well.  At least things can breath now.

OH!  Before I go, one last thing.

Depending on both my bus and my route/mood, there are two places I walk past regularly.  One is called Bakoven and for my life I can't figure out whether it's German or Dutch, or something else entirely.  It certainly isn't French.  Mm, they regularly have caramel-ified smells filling that space between Engen and the building they're in.  This morning was no different, and it made me hate them just a little bit.  Just, you know, a really tiny little bit.  Because their stuff always smells so fecking good and I haven't had the chance to sample any yet!!  :'(

Here's a pic of them:

So if, you know, you want to surprise me or anything with a treat or some such...

This below is a place on Waterkant Street, literally right on the Fanwalk.  Espresso Bar Gelateria.  They have this KILLER Austrian hot chocolate - the barista always just calls it Kakao, which is (duh) the base name for chocolate.  It's thick, and smooth, and creamy, and the best part about it besides its absolutely addictive taste is that you don't need to add any sugar whatsoever.  The option is there, but I've not needed to add anything extra at any time I have one.  Please, go give them a try - they are SO worth it!

Righto, I'm off.  I've been pretending to be busy for long enough now (I said to no customer), so I reckon it's about time I go and give my attention to some other endeavour.

I love you all!

Pubic regrowth is a bitch!

No matter what anyone tells you, or tries to tell you, or drugs and tells you, or even hypnotises and tells you, having your pubes grow back after a few days hurts like the dickens!  Not so much in the actual "eish eina" way, but the itching and the sharp little pains as your undies rub over the skin and then the pants (or skirts) or whatever that you wear over that area  just HAVE to go and contribute to the itching and the scratchiness and and and...

<Deep breath!>

So that's what's been on my mind of late.  Pretty horrible, I know, and completely not usually what's making noise in my upper head.

Had any good lollipops lately?

Something that has been bothering me is old songs.  "On Top of Spaghetti" is a firm favourite, outdone only by "You are my Sunshine", with Tom Jones and his "What's New, Pussycat?" floating in and out of my consciousness.  OMG, the noise these three are making!  I tell you, kattekore have nothing on this lot.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey!
I lost my poor meeeeeeaaaatbaaaaaaaallll
When somebody sneeeeeeeezed!
It rolled off the taaaaaaable and onto the flooooooooor!
Pussycat, pussycat, I love you, yes, I do!!"