Anyway, Samantha had some Russian Dolls and I always loved them. They seemed charmingly folksy. Much more interesting than my bald Sindy dolls (I cut the hair off every Sindy I ever owned, what would a shrink say about that I wonder)?
On another subject my young Maine Coon cat has killed his first seagull. Cecil (aka Baby Herod) is the most ruthless serial killer I have ever known. When he was a tiny, fluffy kitten of 4 months old he brought a live, still-flapping pigeon into the house. The pigeon was at least twice his size. Cecil's preferred modus operandi is to bring his prey in through the cat-flap whilst still alive. He then releases the bird/ mouse/ rat / wooly mammoth into my kitchen (or occasionally into my bed) and has the pleasure of trying to catch it all over again.
I still love them, I love things that are slightly kitsch and old fashioned. So today I bought myself some Russian Dolls. I have placed them in my favourite corner of my sitting room. It has:
- a walnut Art Deco bookcase (one of my dad's best junk shop finds)
- a lovely tiffany style lamp, with glittering green and purple glass
- a framed piece of wallpaper designed by CFA Voysey (bought in an antique shop in York)
I think my dolls look right at home there. It is funny, the shop had a huge selection of dolls to choose from. Madam Noir was with me (I don't think she could see the appeal, she favours a more minimalist, uncluttered elegance).
'I like these.' she said, picking up a very subdued set, painted a dark and
sophisticated burgandy.
I felt obliged to point out that the point of the Russian Doll is their gaudy
tastelessness, I wasn't looking for refinement.
He is such a sly and adept hunter that he often can be seen with 2 live creatures in his mouth at once. Last week I saw him juggling with 2 blackbirds. My other cats simply watch him with slack-jawed awe. He is their hero.
I have wondered, living as I do, by the sea, whether he would ever get a seagull. They are enormous beasts and terribly vicious, so I doubted he would. Well, today I came home to find a huge dead seagull left on my doorstep. It was right outside the catflap. I suppose I should be grateful that the fiendish feline didn't manage to wrestle the carcass through the flap and into the house. Or worse, imagine if I had come home to a live seagull in the house. Dear God. Whatever next?
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