The Multiple Choice of Breakfast Parrots


Here’s the story of exoticness, joy, and pixies.

Well, I certainly feel a lot more comforted by all these little pixies I keep seeing flying around my head after this dress debacle. Oh, what? You don’t see the flying pixies? But you see a gold and white dress, when all normal people see a black and blue one? So I must accept that you see the world differently from me. Yet when I tell you something equally as unbelievable, you don’t seem to believe me. Well, aint that a turn up for the books? On the one hand, it’s absolutely terrifying as it makes us start to question the very fabric of reality, yet on the other, IT’S JUST A FRICKIN’ DRESS! It wasn’t the most unbelievable thing I saw this week, to be honest with you. I walked passed a supermarket and on the front window, there was an advert for a new product. Kangaroo balls. I was with my father. He turned to me and said, “I bet you don’t get many in a packet…”

There’s a national supermarket in the UK that’s just started selling Australian animals. To eat. I hear the ostrich burgers are hugely popular. They also sell crocodile meat and the infamous kangaroo meat. I’m not sure why. They were selling us horse without our knowledge a couple years ago and when we found out, nobody seemed particularly bothered. I wasn’t. Because horses deserve it. But many people in the UK said afterwards that it wasn’t the horse that bothered us, it was being lied to. So I think this supermarket has seen a window in the market. Unusual foods! I can’t wait until they start selling unicorns…

I haven’t tried any of the kangaroo, ostrich or crocodile meat. I’m a selective vegetarian. Unless meat comes from a pig or a cow, I’m not eating it. Like one of these vegetarians who eats bacon. You can’t blame them. I mean, bacon is God-like in its stature. I am worried about this exotic food leading us down a slippery slope. In Asia, they eat dogs and insects. I mean, what if they start selling that here? When’s this insanity gonna stop? Australians don’t even eat this crap. I’ve been there, believe me. I just hope we don’t see the day when the beloved family dog is on the local supermarket shelves. I can’t see the point. Unless they give you money for it. Or a year’s free shopping! What? No, I don’t like dogs, either.

All that said, I would quite like to try parrot…

One thing I’m glad we don’t have from Australia is their Weetabix. The British invented it but they sell it in Australia and America under their own recipes. If you’re British, you like Weetabix and you go to America or Australia, don’t eat their Weetabix. It tastes about as nice as mouldy cheese. Australian Weetabix is tolerable, it’s like a dry and very hard biscuit. American Weetabix is similar but leaves an awful bitter taste in your mouth. I have a theory that it’s something to do with the milk. I mean, their cows spend much more time in the sun than British cows, and if you leave milk in the sun, I think you know what happens.

I mention Weetabix because mother was having a go at me again this week, this time about breakfast. In the supermarket. Look, I know most 24 nearly 25-year-olds don’t do the weekly shop with mother, but now and again I offer to and immediately regret it. Every aisle! “Do you like that? Do you want that? You should try that.” I don’t try new things! I stick to what I know. I am incredibly awkward. You could ask me a million times and I wouldn’t try something new. When you go on holiday, I’m the one you have to find a restaurant for that sells pig or cow. Anyway, the supermarket. There mother and I were this week. Staring at a ridiculous number of Weetabix brands.

“Ooh, the banana one looks nice.” “Don’t like bananas.” “Chocolate?” “For breakfast?” “Strawberry?” “Don’t like strawberries.” “Golden syrup?” “Do I look Canadian?” “Organic?” “What does that make the rest of it? In-organic? That’s impossible!” “Fine, what about this Oatibix?” “That doesn’t even make sense – if Weetabix is with an ‘a’ why is Oatibix with an ‘i’?” “Oatyflakes? Crunchy bran?” “THAT’S JUST MASHED UP OATIBIX AND MASHED UP WEETABIX! I could do that with a heavy spoon and regular Weetabix – which is cheaper!” “So you just want regular?”

YES! What the hell is wrong with regular! Why do we need eight types of Weetabix? And Oatibix? It should be an ‘a’! If it’s not broke, why fix it? Why bother trying new things? I know what I like. And what if I bought one of the eight! Hmm? What if I didn’t like it? Look at the money I’ve just wasted on something I’m not gonna eat! The logical course of action is to never change, because I’ve had far too much of it this year, to the point whereby it can piss right off.

It’s been a strange week what with the exotic meat, the Weetabix and the very fabric of reality caving around us. I’m still most pissed off about the Weetabix. Eight types! I mean, gee. I’ve also had several migraines this week, taking my 2015 total up to five. On course to beat my record 23 of last year! Yea, me. But, for the most part, it’s been a joyous week. From dad finding a humorous innuendo filled crossword puzzle (‘up an alley with a broom handle’) to moments later discovering a teddy bear mother found and brought home. It was wearing hot pants. Seriously. I’m still lost for words…

Of course, it would be remiss of me not to mention the best news of the week. My brother and his wife had their second child. Uncle again. Utterly beautiful baby boy. Doing well as is his mother. Sort of brings this post full circle. Because they live in Australia. A land I now refer to as the home of kangaroo balls.

I do wonder what kind of family that six pound bundle of joy has been born in to. My other brother, who lives not far away from me, wanted some curtains put up this week. Mother is brilliant at that. So she and father went to put up the curtains. But oh dear, no ladders. So, they pushed the armchair up against the radiator. Still a bit of a gap. So they got the ironing board, rested one side on the arm of the armchair and the other side on top of the radiator. Mother then sent up father because, in her words, “he’s more expendable.” You can only imagine the sight of father perched upon this arrangement with mother holding him up with her hands on his backside. Needless to say, dad did accidentally drop the hammer on mother’s foot…

I often wonder where I get it from.

American actor, film director, poet, singer and photographer, Leonard Nimoy (1931-2015), once wrote, “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
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