Watching the sun slowly rise over my rose bushes as I sipped my jasmine tea this morning I could almost have been in some tropical paradise. Ali, my gardener, his head bowed toward the east was in my garden on his knees, the dawn reflected by his white robe.
I glanced at the morning news, and swiftly found it depressing. Someone had been arrested for spying on a tech company and there were reports of any number of conspiracies. I really do get tired of these intrigues. I turned off the news and listened to some morning music instead. This really is the nicest part of the day, and I wasn’t going to have it ruined by scandals which I could do nothing about.
I do love my garden, but as I watched the light spread across the verdant greens and browns of fall foliage I noticed a disruption in the tranquility of the universe. My lawn, so lovingly maintained, was pock marked with the evidence of some burrowing creatures. The velvet green of my well manicured grass had evidently attracted an infestation. It was then that I realised that Ali was not praying but peering inquisitively into one of the invaders burrows.
He rose to his feet and then walked purposefully to my kitchen, where I sat enjoying my breakfast of croissants and English marmalade, dressed in a long pale green dressing gown, and creamy silk night dress, with a pink tie about the waist. I do so love the way the silk feels on my skin. It makes me shudder that once I constrained myself with horribly male cotton pyjamas with an image of spider man on blazened on the back. Still, I was eleven at the time.
“Good morning, Ali,” I said as he knocked on the kitchen door and then opened it. “Would you like some jasmine tea, it’s freshly brewed.”
Ali came in and I poured him some of the tea, and he looked at me earnestly.
“We have to act swiftly, madam,” said Ali.
“Well, I’m sure we do,” I said, wondering what on earth he was talking about.
“They’re taking over. Before long we’ll be over run,” he continued.
“Ali,” I said, still confused. “Have you been getting your news from Facebook again?”
“No madam,” he replied. “It’s the moles.”
“I heard something about it on the news,” I said.
“Really?” said Ali. “It must be worse than I thought,” he said, his gaze drawn to the garden. He then added, as an afterthought, “We need to stuff their holes.”
There was an awkward silence and then I said, “That seems a little extreme.”
Ali is a Syrian refugee and came to his new life in Canada a few years ago. Having walked halfway across Europe he and his lovely wife and two girls finally found a safe haven that welcomed them, here in Canada. I know he must have been through any number of traumas during his flight as the country fell into civil war. Still, the inhumane treatment of spies seemed a little harsh. It was then I noticed Ali looking at me rather quizzically.
“Oh, you mean the ‘moles’. In the garden…” I said, realising my mistake.
“Yes, madam. They’re getting in from Marjorie’s, next door.”
“Wine bottles,” he said as if that were all the explanation needed.
Sometimes I think Ali is just saying random words. I really should talk to his English teacher sometime.
“We push them in their holes,” he added.
“Oh, yes.” I said quite suddenly. “I think I saw a video of that once.”
“Yes, we block their holes with wine bottles, and they’ll soon leave,” said Ali.
“Then I suppose we’d better talk to Auntie Kittie.”
https://fionadobson.com/local-singles-hook-up/ always has empty wine bottles about the place. I get the distinct impression they don’t stay full for very long with her. But that’s not the main reason I’m writing to you this morning. I thought I’d make a point of dropping you a line and telling you that Auntie’s Kittie’s diary is as popular as ever and this weekend anyone who signs up for it (just $1 a month) will get free entry into our Whatsapp Group (usually $10 a month). I wouldn’t want you to miss out.
Have a lovely week, and let me know how you are doing.
I have been treating myself to a few enjoyable gifts to myself lately. Victoria’s Secret, and one or two other places have been benefiting from my self indulgence.
On Wednesday, this week I asked Max, my neighbours twenty-year old son, to come with me to a lingerie store. This was admittedly partly to tease him, and partly to teach him a little lesson. He’s been hanging around a lot lately, and seems to spend way too much time at my place. When I am doing yoga he seems to get extremely agitated. When I am working up a sweat he seems unable to stop watching at me.
“Max,” I said to him, “sometimes I don’t know what’s got into you. You spend so much time over here! You might as well help me with some shopping.”
I drove down to the lingerie store with him, and explained, “Things have been so hard lately,” as I smoothed down the skirt I was wearing.
“Don’t you ever feel like,” I searched for words, “…splashing out on some new underwear?”
Max seemed quite overcome by the thought. He carried my bags back to my car once I had bought some new items of hosiery.
Once at home, I took out several boxes of my underwear and asked him to help me sort them into colors and fold them nicely. He seemed very happily engaged in this task when there came a knock on the door downstairs. I asked him to go down and see who it could be.
Max took himself off and some minutes later, when he didn’t return I glanced out of the window to see him clutching at his stomach and heaving into a flowerbed in my garden. This wasn’t going to help the petunias. After all his efforts to keep them looking full and flowery, Ali, my gardener was not going to like that at all.
I opened the window of my bedroom and called down, “Max, are you all right?”
In reply he pointed toward the kitchen and called back “Amanda,” And then staggered off toward the gate to his parent’s house.
I groaned inwardly. Amanda, my wife’s obnoxious friend, had obviously slipped through the perimeter defences. I decided to go downstairs and see what the unbearable woman wanted. I slipped into pair of gender neutral yoga pants and descended the stairs.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy,” Amanda blurted out as I entered the kitchen. Apparently she had got away from work editing Pig and Pig Farmer Weekly a little early today.
“What did you do to the poor lamb, Amanda?”
“I just asked him to help me with something. You see, I’m taking some pain medication for my back. Anyway I’m supposed to,” and at this point she lowered her voice, “use these.” She pulled a package from her sac like handbag.
“And what are these,” I asked not wishing to get too close.
“Suppositories,” she relied, and my stomach turned over.
“And you wanted Max to help you with them?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied in a matter of fact voice. “They’re supposed to bring my temperature down. It’s a side effect of the medication, you see.”
“You don’t think that’s a little odd?” I said, my mind reeling as I stared at the pack on my kitchen counter.
“Is that even a thing?” I made a note to Google suppositories and temperature.
“You don’t understand,” she stammered as though suddenly realising she’d made a horrendous mistake.
“Amanda, I really don’t think you can ask young Max to…”
“It’s the packaging. I can’t get it out of the blister pack,” she protested.
“There are some things, Amanda, you just can’t ask people to do!”
“I can’t open the packaging, it’s my fingers. Not with my arthritis!” she protested.
“All the same,” I said doubtfully. “I think you may have scarred Max permanently. He looks pretty traumatised.”
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “You don’t think he thought I wanted him to…” Amanda looked horrified.
“Yes, I do, Amanda. I think you may have left a very damaging and lasting impression on his fragile young mind.”
However, all this is not the main reason I am writing to you this evening. We’ve got some great new content on the website here: http://FionaDobson.com and I’d love to see your comments and questions about it. Go right ahead and make comments on the site, and I’m thrilled to answer them.
Have a great week and remember not to let your temperature get too high.
There was a steady stream of water falling between Ali, my Syrian gardener’s legs.
“Ali,” I said. “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
“Ah, madam. I’m watching Max’s premature ejaculation. He did it for his mother…”
I paused. I’ve learned that’s a good idea with Ali. I’m never quite sure if he’s serious, or just confused.
“His water hose… He’s got it hooked up to Google – that online house thing. It waters the flowers. Well, drowns them actually. It’s coming on prematurely and the water pressure’s too high.”
“I see,” I said. I decided I had better talk to that English teacher of his.
“I prefer to use a more natural method such as this watering can, madam,” he said as he continued to water the flowers.
It’s been a strange week. Sylvester had a couple of his Navy friends staying. Billy Bates, a Quartermaster on a missile cruiser, and his friend Simon Steyns. Simon was recently demoted back to Ordinary Seaman following a nasty shoreside incident involving another member of the crew and a very worried looking hamster.
To round everything off Amanda brought her sister over and her revolting daughter. Chelsea, Amanda’s elder sister doesn’t approve of Amanda’s relationship with Marjory. She say’s it’s against God. I have to say I told her that Amanda is against God. I mean really! What immortal hand or eye would frame that fearful symmetry… urgh.
Chelsea Chizit and her daughter Emma are cut from the same cloth. They’re the sort of uncultured slobs that know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
And to top it off Max is besotted with Emma. To be fair, she is not entirely unpleasant to look at as she glides around the garden half naked in the sunshine, like some sort of fae. Yet Max just stares slack jawed and drools. It’s most disturbing. He wanders around moony eyed murmuring “Emma Chizit… Emma Chizzit.”
“Ali,” I said as firmly as I could, “Do you happen to know if Amanda is next door visiting Marjory?”
“Oh yes,” he said. Not much gets passed Ali. He knows the comings and goings of most of Huckleberry Close. “She wrist deep in …”
“Ali!” I said firmly.
“… in tomatoes. They’re canning the tomatoes she grew in her greenhouse. Making sauce…”
As everyone starts to get back to something approaching normal I am delighted to say I am enjoying occasional days like this where friends visit and life seems almost as it did before this infernal pandemic.
I am pleased to say I am double vaccinated, as are most of my friends. I hope you are to, and I’d encourage you to get it done as soon as possible, for your own good and the good of all those around you.
I hope you’ve been enjoying The Dating Game by Mollie Blake. It’s been featured this last few weeks on the website, Remember there always new content on the site, and I do get on now and then to chat with my members on the web chat functionality. If I happen to be on when you are there, be sure to say hello.
Have a lovely week,
First of all I’d like to say that I hope you are loving my programs. We have over 2500 gurls enjoying my helping hand… Wait, that sounds a little wrong. If you are not already in one of the programs you should sign up today. Anyway, I thought I’d share what I’ve been getting up to this week.
With all this sunshine I’ve been spending a lot of time in the garden and at the beach. I do love to sail, and Bernard’s boat is finally in shape. It’s so good to live in a city in which the outdoor lifestyle I love is so accessible.
My gardener, Ali Ibrahim, pulled into my drive way in his Smart Car this Tuesday. He’s been doing some topiary in my garden. With him was Sylvester, my mechanic. Now, Sylvester is a very large man and seeing him struggle out of Ali’s tiny car was rather like watching a man get out of an overcoat that is three sizes too small for him.
“I had no idea you knew Ali,” I said to Sylvester.
“I don’t. He gave me a ride from the highway. My truck broke down, again! Very kind of your friend Mr. Ibrahim to pick me up.”
The irony of this was not lost on me.
Sylvester was speaking very slowly, so Ali would understand him. So slowly, actually, that one might assume he thought Ali had some extreme form of learning disability. Sylvester was, of course, unaware that Ali had been a professor in a university in Damascus until fleeing the country and finding his way to Canada.
“He just pulled over and offered me a lift, and it turned out we were both coming to your place.”
“How fortuitous,” I said. Sylvester was looking a little dubiously at Ali, who in turn was smiling happily, as is his nature.
Sylvester took me aside and looking a little worried said “he keeps saying he can’t get his whores in his car.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s very small.”
“Car no good for hoes,” said Ali, catching my eye, and nodding and smiling happily.
“Yes, Ali. I’m sure,” I said smiling.
I turned to Sylvester and said, “Ali is struggling a little with his English, but I think he’s trying to tell you that he doesn’t like the smart car because he can’t put his rakes and hoes and spade in the back. He’s got his small tools for working in the garden, but his large tools get… stuck. But you’d know all about that.”
Sylvester sniggered and turned to Ali and said, “Hoes, eh? Well come by my shop in the morning, ok?”
Ali smiled his enormous smile and nodded enthusiastically.
When Ali showed up at my place the yesterday to continue his work on remodelling my bush he came with the most extraordinary collection of tools on the back of his Smart Car. Sylvester had given him a nice new gun rack, salvaged from a car that had been written off.
Ever the inventive soul, Ali had fitted it and now uses it to carry his hoes and rakes and larger tools. And we all like larger tools.
But that’s not the main reason I am writing. I am thrilled to say I have a few spaces available in our Whatsapp Group. You can find all the details here, if you like chatting with other CDs.
Come on in and join the fun.
I had just disconnected from a Zoom meeting with a client who was looking at rebranding his chain of laundries when Ali, my Syrian gardener, arrived for his English lesson. I have been concerned about his use of English and offered to help him as best I could. The Trimark Laundry Company would have to wait for their report about renaming their stores.
As a busy advertising account executive I find I do have to prioritise my private life. If Mr. Skid of the Trimark Laundry Company expected to be prioritized over my own personal interests he was very much mistaken.
I spend a half hour each day helping Ali to advance his use of English.
“So you see, Ali,” I explained, “using capitalization properly can completely change the meaning of a sentence. For example, ‘I was helping my cousin Jack off his horse…”
At that very moment the door swung open and Bernard bustled into the kitchen.
“Goodness,” I said. “You gave me a start, Bernard. What on earth’s the matter?”
“I’ve got a leak,” he said hurriedly.
“Well, you know where the bathroom is,” I replied.
“No. It’s the boat. I need to go and pump it out. It seems to be taking on water.”
I should explain. Bernard keeps a small sloop in the mariner near Huckleberry Close.
“Well, can I help with anything? Biscuits perhaps?” I got up to put the kettle on.
“No. We have to get down there right away. I wondered if you and Ali could help out,” he said.
“Of course,” I replied reaching for my new London Look lipstick. I wouldn’t want to be caught out in a sinking boat without a nice shade, and went to find a nice pale pink sweater.
“It’s just that I need someone to help pump it out.”
I remembered the hours I’d spent onboard pumping my arm up and down seemingly for hours on a previous occasion. Anyone who’s been around boats will know this feeling. Up down, up down, and up down. And all to drain the scuppers.
“Oh, I’m sure I can help with that.”
“Can I come too,” piped up Ali.
“Of course,” said Bernard. “The more the merrier!”
What a fun morning we had. And all because Bernard’s worm gear clamp had not been properly adjusted. I admit this does sound rather more like something in Mistress Meg’s realm than mine. Which brings you to the main reason I’m writing today. I put out a lovely story for my all my members this week – The Long Game. And true to form Mistress Meg has released one of her great self hypnosis files. You can find Mistress Meg’s Denial self hypnosis here. You’ll need to be a Seahorse member to access it and if you’ve not already done so you can do so here.
Now, I have to go and massage my bicep. All that pumping is quite exhausting. However, at least Bernard’s boat is all shipshape now.
Have a lovely week.
As you know, I am a very sensitive person. I like to think others come to me because of my gentle nature and empathy. For this very reason I was very concerned about a conversation I recently had with Ali, my gardener and Bernard, my photographer. Things are a little quiet at the advertising agency at present, so Bernard has been out getting his boat ready for the season. He does so love his sailing.
Ali and I were enjoying a very nice German Riesling in the garden, talking about plans I have for the arboretum, or scrub land as Sylvester rather ignorantly refers to the more unkempt section at the bottom of my garden.
“The Germans really are talented wine makers,” I said as I surveyed the wild flowers.
“Indeed,” said Ali, in his heavily accented Syrian English. “This is a very ‘Hände hoch’.”
“Ali, I don’t think you can say that. We’re all on the same side now! Is it racist? I don’t know. Besides,” I added, “you drive a smart car. Isn’t that made by Mercedes?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my English, you know,” mumbled Ali. I am concerned about his language skills, but I some times suspect he may be trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
At that very moment Bernard appeared at my Garden gate looking most concerned. I invited him in and sat him at the garden table and asked what on earth could be the matter.
“Well,” he started, looking very downcast, “I think I may have upset someone down at the sailing club.”
“How on earth did you do that,” I asked, eager to help, as ever.
“I was trying to be helpful,” said Bernard. “It was the Commodore. He was moving his boat, and I offered to lend him a hand.”
“Bernard, that sounds very kind of you,” I observed.
“You obviously don’t remember I introduced you to Andrew a couple of years ago at the year end dinner. You remember, he was the guy with only one arm,” replied Bernard awkwardly.
“Only one arm,” I said slowly. “Ah, yes. I remember now. And you offered to lend him a hand?”
“Yes. It just, sort of, came out,” he continued. “And things got a little chilly after that.”
“Are you sure he took offence,” I asked. “It might be that you’re imagining this. He’s probably just fine.”
At this point Ali chimed in, “You offered to help the fellow. Where’s the ‘arm in that?”
I fixed Ali with a cold stare.
“Ali, that’s not funny,” I said.
You can see the sort of dreadful thing I have to put up with. However, on a brighter note, I am thrilled to say my Premium Program for women is going very nicely. If you know anyone that would benefit from this great program, be sure to suggest they visit my Patreon and look for the $5 a month Package, which is especially for them.
https://fionadobson.com/local-singles-hook-up/ has a great new diary entry today, so if you’re a member be sure to check it out.
Have a lovely weekend, stay safe and get a vaccine!
PS – Yes. Be sure to get a vaccine. I said that. And I had mine about 10 days ago. It’s about the most satisfying prick that’s been in me in a while!
As the New Year kicks into gear I am pleased to see Ali getting to grips with my garden. As you know, Ali is my Syrian gardener, and a recent immigrant to Canada. He is a diligent worker and has thrown himself into the task of managing my garden.
A university professor of botany in his home country, he has come to build a new life here in our country, along with his lovely wife and two delightful daughters. Here in Canada we welcome new friends from around the world, and embrace the chance to add to the deep culture of this diverse and remarkable country.
“We don’t have an equivalent of your ‘Santa Claus’,” he recently explained while we were working at preparing the greenhouse for this years plants. “Besides, anything flying over our airspace at low altitude stands a good chance of being shot down. And… well, reindeer meat… I think he’s well advised to respect the no-fly zone.”
“Be that as it may, Ali,” I said. “I’m most concerned about Amanda and Marjory. All through the Christmas season I barely saw them. I know it’s been harder this Christmas with the whole Covid thing, but you’d think she’d say hello over the garden fence.
“Fiona, they’ve been very busy. Amanda’s been there all week. And you know what they’re like,” replied Ali.
I don’t think Ali really approves of the nature of Amanda’s relationship with Marjory. Same sex partnerships are not exactly common place in Syria, on account of people not wanting to be stoned to death in the public square.
“All the noise and fuss they make,” said Ali. “It’s very disruptive.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, it must be nice to be in love.”
“They were making an Italian dish yesterday with the left over turkey,” he mused, while cleaning one of the planting beds in the greenhouse.
“That sounds lovely. One of the things I enjoy about Christmas is getting creative with all those meals using turkey in the days that follow. I had turkey curry yesterday, myself.”
“If I over heard it correctly, Amanda got her finger stuck in the pasta maker. It was quite disturbing,” said Ali.
“Oh,” I said surprised. “I thought Marjory made the pasta.”
“Yes,” replied Ali. “She does.”
But that’s not the main reason I am writing to you today, as we go into what I think we are all hoping is a more hopeful year than last. I understand many of us are finding it harder to dress during the lockdowns that we must inevitably endure. I also realise that this increases the stress for all of us, and I want to make a suggestion that I find has helped many of my members.
While it would be wonderful to be able to dress everyday, all day, many of my members are simply unable to do this. When it is impossible to dress, for whatever reason, there’s still the middle ground, of becoming more androgynous. This is a way to start shifting what you wear to something somewhat more feminine, though without being entirely crossdressed. If you get creative you’ll find ways to do this, and enjoy that middle ground in the gender spectrum.
It could be as simple as shifting the colors you wear. Pastel colors and moving away from hard contrast color patterns is somewhat more feminine and gentle. Equally, going for the lambswool sweater and softer fabrics is always more enjoyable.
For others it will be engaging a more feminine clothing style, without crossing the line. Nice jeans can bring out the shape of your legs, and if all you need to do is add heels to shift over the line, then you’re always just moments from being able to crossdress. Sometimes the only difference between dressing straight or crossdressed is the presence of eye makeup.
Let’s make 2021 a wonderful year. Don’t let Covid get you down. This is where we learn patience – a good lesson for anyone who is trans. If you’re struggling and haven’t done so already, remember my Whatsapp Group is a great way to connect with others and see yourself through this challenging time. Alternatively, remember there’s a host of entertaining stories right here. Be sure to enjoy the video below.
FionaBecome a Patron!
My goodness, if you could see what’s going on outside my window. I can hardly believe is! I’m standing here in my Christmas lingerie, and my heels, and quite shocked at what I can see going on out there!
Ali, my gardner has just told me, “It’s ok, Fiona. It’s just Sylvester and Max jacking off in the flower beds.”
Now, I know you can imagine me standing here in my flowing red silk robe, mouth open in surprise. I am staring out at the snowy Montreal scene, and everybody seems to be having a wonderful time! Oh, perhaps you should even be here!
Let me explain. I’m watching Sylvester’s muscle bound arm pumping up and down and Max, my next door neighbours 20 year old son laughing – I think he’s licking his fingers – yes, he’s spilled some Bailey’s Irish Cream on his hand, or at least I think that’s what it is. And Ali is watching, engrossed in the unfolding scene.
They’re laughing and very jolly, Sylvester’s face red with exertion, and he has a look of deep concentration. Apparently, Ali’s Smart Car slid off the drive in the snow as he pulled into the icy driveway. It slid into the flower bed, and onto a rock in the rockery. Max and Sylvester were already at my place enjoying a Christmas eve drink, and now the three of them are working away to lift the little vehicle off the rock and manhandle it back onto the drive. What Christmas excitement!
I should hurry along! Amanda, the queen of tweed will be here soon, and Bernard is coming over. My wife, sadly is travelling. She’s a slave to her job! In the meantime, we are a fun gang, all hoping that Christmas will go with a bang!
I know Sebastian wants to show me his mince pies and sausage. He has been making so many delightful treats lately.
I hope you have a lovely Christmas! Have a wonderful holiday and remember, be careful if you are driving in the snow. Otherwise you too might find yourself licking Irish cream from your fingers after jacking off in someone’s garden!
What a very stressful few days it’s been. Just today I had one of the neighbourhood boys over while my delightful niece, Nancy and I arranged some flowers in my house. I do find it so relaxing to put out a few nice flower arrangements.
The children in Huckleberry Close seem to gravitate to my house, and the large garden I’m lucky enough to have. Fiona’s delightful gardener, Ali, has been helping me and cutting some beautiful blooms for me to arrange in the house. The unfortunate challenge of being so available to the neighbourhood children is that from time to time the rather revolting neighbour, Donald comes and plays in my garden. I try to be kind and even handed, but it’s really not always easy. I think all the children think of me as their personal Auntie.
It’s hardly surprising really. They love to come over and are sure to sample my pie, or anything else I put out on the kitchen table. I like to provide a nice spread. Some of the young boys just can’t get enough of it. I should be flattered I suppose, that they have such hearty appetites.
“Auntie,” said young Donald this very afternoon. “What’s an erection?”
“Donald, that’s a very unusual question. Now, let me see. Your mother should really talk to you about this, but when a man and a woman… No, when two people… No, when a small group of people of undetermined genders or something between genders…”
“Auntie,” said little Nancy jumping in and coming to my rescue between placing holly sprigs in vases I’d put out on the table. “I think Donald means, ’What’s an election?’”
“Oh, I see,” I said with relief. “Really? You don’t know what that is? Ok, let’s see. How can I explain? It’s something we do now and then to get rid of people who aren’t running the country the way we like it. For example, by locking up all the little children. Or making promises they don’t keep, or are generally doing things that are douchy and not representative of our values.”
“What are values, Auntie Kittie?” asked Donald.
“Don’t worry, Donald,” I replied. “I’ll let you know if you ever get any. We usually elect people based on policies, Donald. So, for example in Canada we believe in religious freedoms, freedom of thought and belief, and freedom of expression. You believe in freedom of speech, don’t you, Donald?”
“Well, I guess,” agreed Donald reluctantly.
“Well shut up then,” I said firmly.
“Tell him about the polls, Auntie,” piped up Nancy, always keen to be of help.
“I don’t trust the Poles,” said Young Donald.
“Don’t be so racist,” I said and cuffed him around the ear, before sending him off to the bathroom. “Be a sensible boy and be sure to wash your little hands after.”
Donald has a lot to learn in the hygiene department.
Nancy turned to me and said, “I’m not sure Donald quite understands about democracy.”
“Oh,” I said gently. “I’m sure he’ll learn. And then probably be thrown in a cell where he belongs, before dying alone in disgrace. Under the circumstances I think that’s not a bad outcome.”
“What do you mean, Auntie?” asked Nancy.
“Well, five hundred years ago we would have stoned him to death, in the time honored fashion. Under the circumstances, if I were Donald I would consider myself lucky.”
Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over. Let’s just stay calm, and choose an extra special pair of panties with which to celebrate as the tide of change flushes out the U-bend of the last four years.
Your favorite auntie,
Get more Auntie Kittie HERE.
Well, what can I say. It’s not been an easy week. As many of us go into an election week, I know all of us are going to be feeling a certain degree of stress. Be assured I am here for you.
I always find it helpful to listen to the Fiona Dobson playlist on Youtube to dispel stress. It really does help put a smile on my face, even when I do read about something mind bogglingly moronic that the buffoon in the White House is up to. I believe it was Mayo Angelou, that great philosopher that said, “Mask up, asshole.” That, however, is not the main reason I’m writing to you.
Several of my members have written to me this week concerned about my good friend Rainbow, the yoga teacher, who has recently found herself out of work due to the problems we face associated with Covid. I selected one email at random, from Mildred, of Colorado Springs, that I felt I might share with you. Mildred suggested that perhaps Rainbow could make use of her talents as a vegetarian, helping others improve their diet. How very thoughtful, Mildred. I will pass the suggestion on to Rainbow. Vegetarian meals can indeed be an exquisite blend of flavors and are sure to excite the taste buds and satisfy the appetite, unless you’ve ever actually tasted meat.
Fortunately Sebastian, Sylvester, Ali and the rest of the crew are all managing ok. Amanda, my wife’s good friend, has moved in with my next door neighbor Marjory, with whom she is conducting a sordid lesbian relationship. She is working from home there, and I mentioned to Sylvester (who has designs on Amanda for some inexplicable reason), that I often saw her in the conservatory beavering away. He replied “Amanda is indeed elbow deep in,” and at this point he paused meaningfully, “…work.”
What times these are. Nonetheless, I felt I would write and tell you of a rather unusual incident that took place the other night. As you may be aware Canada is large. In fact it’s huge. Earlier this week I was driving across one of our seemingly endless prairies, late at night when I saw mysterious lights in the sky, approaching at high speed. At first I thought it might be our Prime Minister, my good friend Justin Trudeau in his private plane. He has the disturbing habit of flying very low over the prairies, smiling and waving at us as he goes by. You may have heard of him, he’s the head of state in the North America that can read.
However, it was not he. I should have remembered he’s usually tucked up in bed by 9 pm with a cup of hot milk. No, this was altogether too fast to be something of this world.
Now, I think I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, not again!” Yes, that’s right, you’ll remember I had an encounter with alien life forms a little over two years ago. And indeed once again this vessel drew level with my speeding Buick, and I felt the sensation of being lifted off the ground, as if by a giant alien hand.
Faster than you can say ‘anal probe’ I found myself in the hold of the enormous vessel. Two alien figures dressed in a silver grey fabric, some type of satin I imagine, walked out of what seemed to be a wall of light toward my car. I was a little disconcerted, as you might imagine. After all it’s not everyday that you are accosted by higher life forms. One of them tapped on the window, and as I looked at them I realised these were the very same two aliens I had met once before.
I put my mask on, and then lowered the window.
The closer of the two aliens leaned toward me and then said, “Excuse me madam, are you the owner of this vehicle?”
“You know I am. Remember, we’ve met before.”
“Just my little joke,” he said with a smile. His sense of humor had not improved in the two years since last we met.
The closer of the two aliens turned to the other and said, “I told you, we’ve seen this one before.”
They seemed to pause for a moment, consulted what looked like an Ipad, and then one shook his head in disappointment, before saying, “Well, let’s get on with it, otherwise we’ll never make the quota.”
Ever helpful I said, “Are you running out of people?”
The nearest alien nodded, and said. “It’s this Covid business. No one’s going out much these days.”
“Well, it’s not like you ask permission,” I said.
“No, but when we pick up someone off Davie Street in Vancouver, and they’ve had six pints of Alexander Keiths everyone just thinks they had a good night at The Junction. No one believes they’ve really been abducted. You know, plausible deniability and all that. But these days,” he shook his bald head, “not so many people are going out for the night. That’s why we have to hang out in the middle of nowhere.” At this point he turned to his friend and said, “I’m not even sure where we are!”
I sighed and said, “Covid.”
In agreement he nodded and sighed, “Covid.”
The senior alien, clearly impatient, then chimed in, “would you mind getting out of the car please?”
I stepped out of the car, and the two of them led me into a small examination room. Instead of the surgical table and lights that one expects in these circumstances, I was placed in a reclining chair and the first alien asked if I would be kind enough to read the letters on a lightbox directly in front of me.
“A, F, G, H,” I said and then asked, “is this it? I mean, you’re giving me an eye exam?”
“Please just read the letters,” said the one that appeared to be in charge.
“M, S, X, no, really is this it?”
The second alien cut in at this point and said, “They don’t let us use the probe any more. They said it’s not politically correct. Something about it not being ‘woke’, whatever that is.”
“Well,” I replied, “it’s not like you ask for consent, is it?”
“We didn’t get many complaints in this sector. At least not on Davie Street.”
“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t. You might get a few people disappointed that you didn’t at least leave your number after you’d finished.”
At this point the first alien smiled at me and said confidentially, “who said he didn’t,” and then winked.
Anyway, I felt I should share these events with you. Now, if you’re in the US be sure to get out and vote as soon as you can. If you don’t live in the US, let’s wish our friends’ the best for their election.