|Count Von Bubblyfun
||[May. 29th, 2004|09:33 am]
besideserato wanted to know about the Count. OK, here goes:
He came from a cat's rescue centre. My daughter fell in love with him. He had long white fur and he was deaf. We stole his name from a Goth friend of ours. It suited him because he (the cat not our erudite and witty friend) wouldn't have known fun if it had crept up behind him and bitten his arse. He hated other cats and liked the high ground. He was known to fall asleep while sitting up; you'd hear a clunk and turn round and find it was Bubbly's jaw hitting the deck.
Talking about the German aristocracy, I was watching a programme about Manfred von Richthofen last night. I fell in love with those WWI fighter planes when I was a kid. I had plastic models suspended from my bedroom ceiling with cotton thread and sellotape. Once in a while one of them would drop off and I would step on it.
The Red Baron only flew that famous red Fokker in the last months of his life. Before that he'd flown a red Albatross. The Albatross is a beautiful, sleek ,cigar-shaped plane. Perhaps the most beautiful plane of the war.
The German planes had the edge when it came to aesthetics. The British Camels and SE5as were ugly snub-nosed things.
I put Von Richthofen on my list of interests and then went looking for other afficionados to add to my Friends list. A lot of them turned out to be mad nazis. Oh dear!
Thank you for sharing about Count Von Bubblyfun--that's hilarious. He makes me think of the Madame, my Father's cat. She's a sycophant when it's convenient and has no integrity to speak of. She is so inbred, she must be blind, because she crashes into everything and can always be seen sporting a black eye in bruise purple to match her indoor collar.
My father calls her "my youngest daughter. And the prettiest one." She has her own bed, which he makes every morning, and a special system of doorbells at every door so she can announce when she wants in or out of a particular room.
Needless to say, I hate her.
As for the planes, oh, thank heavens! I am delighted with the wars and every time I share my love of things, people accuse me of being a Nazi, or else refer me to Nazi parties. We like the history, we appreciate the artifacts--we are not Nazis--no, no, no!
We have had several memorable cats. My favourite was Churchill- so named because he looked and waddled like a bulldog. He would wander off and people would bring him home wrapped in a blanket saying "I'm fearfully sorry, but I think your cat's had an accident," and we would reply, "no, it's quite alright; he always looks that way."
I don't know quite what it is about Von Richthofen, but he moves me almost to tears. I guess he's the nearest thing there is to a modern Achilles.
Not the Red Baron, not Charlie Brown, think I got the message figured--"another pilot down." And are their devils with halos in beautiful capes taking them into the flames. Not Judy G, not Jean Jean with a hallowed heart. I see that screen go down in the flames with every step with every beautiful heel pointed.
Not the Red Baron, I'm sure. Not Charlie's wonderful, wonderful dog. Not anyone I really know, just another pilot down. Maybe I'll just sing him a last little sound--many there know some girls with red ribbons, the prettiest red ribbons.
Not the Red Baron, Tori Amos.