Molotov the Ghost Cat

Really getting used to this daily schedule; once I get my career as a computer games player I'll be doing it forever.

Taking our cue from the weathermen again, we had decided on a bike ride for the daily exercise. I said let's go to the Harvester for lunch, he said let's do a circuit, then, which hits the coast by Whale Island and goes all around the coastal cycle paths right to the Harvester where your will receive your just reward. Jof said that sounds a bit far, so I agreed to go as far as the railway bridge and back, lunch on the return journey (remember this for later).

I haven't been on my bike for ages and was worried I'd have forgotten the controls but it seemed to come back. Just by Ben's Bumpy Paths we met a cat on the cycle path, which liked Bud. This is a dead giveaway for an undead, zombie, hologrammatic, other-worldly or otherwise existentially challenged creature. We all cosseted the random-cat in the middle of the scrubland until a professional-looking cyclist in day-glo spandex came the other way, at which the cat leapt into action and tried to rub itself up against the speeding bike, which wobbled seriously as the owner desperately avoided the death-wishing moggie.

This is when we realised it was a ghost cat who, having been unlawfully killed by a cyclist with no lights, haunts the abandoned cycle routes trying to wreak its unearthly revenge by sending bikers plummeting to their deaths.

By the time we'd got to the top of the island, I had The Face. This Face is a super-sulker that radiates disapproval and little humphing noises, because we'd been cycling for, like, minutes, my ears were cold and we'd already been past the lunch place and I didn't sign up for this 30 mile bike ride and I was hungry, I hadn't eaten breakfast because androids don't eat breakfast and it was all very unfair.

The atmosphere having been duly ruined, we took the shortest route back and had a slap-up lunch with the extra salad bowls with crunchy bits in. I was playing Minecraft OP PVP Survival with the special fruity language when Princess Leia died. Many of the recently departed (like George Michael) I don't know, but Leia and Hans Gruber I certainly do.

And because it was cold, we had the Annual Fire. Once upon a time we used to have fires aplenty, so many that we used to have to hide from the Fire Chief when he came round asking. But now we don't have a garden with brick-built firepit, we have to make do with keeping a few special items and ritually burning them every Xmas in a small domestic grate.

This year, we disposed of: Umpteen losing Lottery scratchcards, sticks from which we made our class easels in the school art exhibition, piece of ceremonial chair from the theatre, a dozen wine corks, a rolling pin, oodles of coconut shells from my coconut shy exploits, pot-pourri from Jof's pointless smelly baskets, random olive branches, pinecones from Grandad's Manor, bottlebrush twigs and chunks of wood with big nails in that we saved from the Scout Group Campfires.

And we watched 'Finding Dory' in which even the stupidest of child viewers could feel superior to the female lead with her piscine vacant brainless antics. And, using toilet roll tubes and Xmas cracker end-bits and no double-sided sticky-tape whatsoever, I made Molotov Cocktails for the righteous masses to burn in honour of the Ghost Cat of the Eastern Highway, may she forever haunt our paths. And I hung a burning pinecone off a stick and said it was an anti-Satan Pilgrim's ritual incense burner, just remember how much us little people absorb from the cultural norms around us.