THAT FRIDAY FEELING
WATCHING the news the other night, Posh Paws husband turned to me and made some clever comment about the state of Gambian politics. It’s like the UN in our house. I was stroking the cat at the time and trying to bribe him into playing with his new toy, some kind of mouse shaped gizmo that’s supposed to drip feed him his favourite treats.
“You’ll have hours of fun watching your ginger boy rolling about trying to release the food,” the cat hair covered woman in the shop told me. Bloody liar.
Anyway, while I’m hanging upside down trying to get Reggie to, in effect, amuse me, the news is blathering on in the background.
“There will be civil war if the West African military forces step in to enforce the transfer of power,” he says. Husband that is, not Huw Edwards. But I bet we’d have lots in common to chopse about too.
“It’s nuts that it’s come to the Senegalese troops stationing themselves at the Gambian border. Has nobody got a watch in Banjul? The deadline for the president to bugger off has gone.
“Hear that Yahya Abdul-Aziz Jemus Junkung Jammeh? It’s gone!”
(I kid you not. THE. FULL. NAME. With what I can only assume was the correct pronunciation. I evidence this by him knowing that my name starts with ‘H’ and he isn’t afraid to use it.)
“If Mauritanian President Mohamed Ould Abdel Aziz failed to break the deadlock, I think that can only end in tears. Adama Barrow won the election. End of.”
At that point, and frankly bored with the cat’s stupidity, I looked up and thought I’d join the conversation, throw in something incredibly erudite underlined with sardonic realism us Valleys folk are renowned for.
And all I could think of saying was: “Glad I’m not in charge of doing their whites.”
That’s it. My insightful, wise and informed contribution to a Serious Global Issue came down to doing the washing.
For aside from all the serious political issues and threats of violence and civil unrest - not to mention the sense of crushing disappointment of Brits having to cancel their all-inclusive fortnight in Kotu - my eyes were blinded by the awe-inspiring sight of powerful men in snow white kaftans.
No chewing gum whites for them. No sign of an errant black sock running into their authority.
Rice white, snow white, pure. Unlike the state of play in the country.
Posh Paws, who by this time had got Reggie to catch the treats between his paws, didn’t scoff, do an eye roll, wonder why he stuttered ‘I do’ before checking if Kate Adie was available.
“Good point,” he said, as the cat started to perfect cartwheels.
“I think I’ll do my own laundry from now on…”