Eighteen Lives

Do you ever kick start your day on a good note? You know a real spring in your step, everything going better than planned and you commence considering yourself the next messiah or better than the legend Beyonce. It's a pretty amazing feeling, hence why it usually doesn't happen to us very often, once every few months if you're lucky. I experienced something along these lines this morning and it was pretty damn magical until the Irish media got involved.

Truth be told we are not the most academic family but my mother does make it a habit to buy the newspaper most mornings. It's more snoopiness than a sign of intelligence. This morning, she had her head stuck into some article so instead of dallying around the dining room looking for insects to kill I decided to have a gawk through the supplement, it was protected in clear plastic and was slightly heavier than normal. This meant only one thing, a freebie was in store. If you live in Ireland you should know that these complimentary giveaways are never great. Whether it's a CD containing Linda Martin's best top thirty-five hits or three conjoined scratch cards where at least two of them will claim you have won gold on the Persian border. But this morning it was different, it was free food.

The samples were cunningly packaged, a bright wrapper and little signs that internal bleeding was to follow. My mother had stopped reading at this stage, she possibly sensed my excitement from the jittery manner in which I opened it.

Both of us rendered a smile, she wanted in. This is where this story should end but within five seconds we both knew something wasn't right.

Me: "They are awful salty." I can't handle anything remotely salty, here's why.

Mother: "It is getting stuck to my teeth." The texture was unrecognisable.

Me: "I'm spitting mine into the bin, these aren't for me." At this point you should know something really wasn't right, I would eat my laptop, shoes and our dog if I had the chance.

Mother: "Show me the packet, they remind me of something." Don't pay any heed, everything supposedly reminds her of something.

Me: "I'd say they're just out of date, at least we didn't pay for them." I await the day newspapers start administering free caviar and Ferrero Rochers with their pullouts.

Mother: "Why is there a picture of a squirrel on the front?" It wasn't a squirrel, let me just say the woman needs to wear her glasses more.

Me: "Probably some cheap mascot for the brand." I watch a lot of Dragon's Den.

Mother: "Yeah, pass me a tissue I cannot bear it much longer."

Me: "OMFG! They. Are. Cat. Biscuits." I then began to laugh, like crying when happy it was a release of over emotion.

Mother: "How could you Patrick? You planned this." Welcome to the blame game sponsored proudly by Mothercare.

My cackling extends, increasing loudly in pitch. I was in shock that she felt I was corrupt enough to do that to her and skilful enough to carry it off so effortlessly.

Me: "But sure I had one too? We are both as dimwitted as each other". You seemingly inherit the dunce cap in this family.

It's now over two hours later and neither of us have said a word to each other since. The absence of sound is eating away at me and I am now unsure where I stand in this whole argument. Did I plan it? Perhaps I subconsciously fooled both of us into consuming the feline affiliated treat. I might be possessed? Can I even trust myself any more?

This might sound strange but it doesn't help that the biscuits were made for cats. Both my mother and I despise cats. They condescend you in their language, whilst silently judging you awaiting your death so they can feast on you instead of the stupid complimentary salty based snacks they are forced to gorge on from the midweek newspaper. If it was dog biscuits, flakes for goldfish or even molasses for the cattle we would be perfectly fine with it. But cats no, cats are and always will be the source of all things evil in the world.