Two weeks ago the old woman went to Bunnings on the little bus and got, among a few other doo-dads, a 50 meters of a black twine-like substance.
When she got home she cut off a piece to test it for knots, she said. Making a few of them in this stuff and dragging it along the floor.
A black string dragging along the floor is like a red rag to a bull if you get my meaning… when I see it I have gotto chase it.
It’s been my only interest for two weeks and I still don’t know how to stop it sliding from between my toes when the old woman tugs it.
She’s getting bored with it, she tells me as she put another knot in the end for me to catch hold of. She tells me it’s the easiest form of playing. She means it requires the least output of energy by me. And she’s right, I like to take it easy.
This is me looking at the string draped over my pillow case with catnip in it.
This me starting a game. Except then I heard her starting to video me and I walked away. I hate that little noise. Lucky the corner was right there.
When she started typing, the one-fingered type, I came back and am just sitting here looking at my black string. Hoping it’ll magically start moving itself so I can chase it.
PS she gave the rest of the string to the builder in the family. It’s 100% polyester and too slippery to hold a knot.
Rita de Heer 