In Which Theo Considers What Makes Something the Best

The amplified Cat had me out of bed at a little after six this morning. She was shouting up the stairs that she was going to be sick and could I please come and make a big fuss of her afterwards. I know you have all already got me pegged as one of those Demented Cat Ladies who think their animals are human and have proper conversations with them (which, to be fair, is a pretty accurate assessment of my character) but I don’t care because understanding the nuances of her miaows has allowed me to develop ninja-like reflexes with a sheet of newspaper. Think of that the next time you are cleaning cat vomit from your carpets and rugs.
Being sick was one of the liver related danger symptoms Richard the Rugby Physiqued Vet warned me about, so the Cat was duly returned to the surgery to have a deeply painful fluid injection, an antibiotic injection and a steroid enlivening injection. The last one definitely worked because I had to spend most of the rest of the morning unsticking her from the furniture.
Richard is pleased with the way her eye is healing. I didn’t tell him that the little tyke managed to jam her head against the edge of the sofa cushion, wriggle out of her lampshade and spend half an hour washing her face. If she does it again I will crochet her a leg warmer. Then she’ll be sorry.
Still. She is managing better with her lampshade. She’s still not terribly proficient with it and spent an entertaining ten minutes revolving slowly in the flower bed and getting stuck on the lavender plants, but she should only need to wear it until the end of the week. Providing she lasts that long of course.

Anyway. Amongst the many and varied things going on over the weekend that I have been failing to pay any attention to at all, were the Academy Awards.
I don’t like award shows. They remind me to be bitter that, despite no effort at all on my part, my desk remains resolutely award free. You’d think that somebody as good looking and clever as myself would get a prize for something. I used to get prizes. When I was 9 I won a netball trophy and when I was 14, I got a Cup for English Literature. That one was rather mysterious as I had no interest in the subject, did not read, indeed did not own a copy of, two thirds of the set texts and don’t recall ever completing anything approximating an essay.

The Oscars are something of an oddity to me. I usually see, at some point, the winner of Best Picture and usually, at some point, think to myself “Why on earth did they choose this one?” In later years I have come to realise that the answer is usually “Because they are best mates with/owe a lot of money to/sleeping with/were sent a complementary weekend in Venice by the PR company of the Director/Producer/Studio” and that is such a shame.
Take Gladiator, for instance. It is one of only two films I would have been happy to walk out of the cinema rather than watch the rest of because I was so bored. The other was the Da Vinci Code.
I never made it past the first half an hour of Crash because I was too busy rolling my eyes and shouting about things. Maybe it got better and turned out not to be laboured, clichéd dross. It’s something I’m never going to know.
A Beautiful Mind was only slightly dull, but the Best Picture released all year? I don’t think so.

All of this consideration makes me wonder, if I had the power to ban promotionary fruit baskets, what criteria would make a film worthy of being the “Best”?

Should a film be considered the best because it is original? Should it be the best because it has a lot of people looking earnest? Should it offer a new perspective on an old subject? Should it have big ideas and be rewarded for attempting them, even if they don’t work out? Should it be an example of how to get things right? Should it teach us? Should it give us answers? Or should it give us questions?

I think that the best way to consider the worth of a film is to let it state its intentions. Let it be what it wants to be as much as it can be, and judge it by how well it achieves that.
An art critic doesn’t walk into a Rothko exhibition and complain that he isn’t like Monet. When critiquing an artist, one looks at the mission statement and considers how the art responds to that. The mission statement itself is under critique as much as the work. The reasons you give must be good ones.

This year’s best picture is Slumdog Millionaire. I have yet to catch up with any of the other nominees so have no idea if it is a worthy winner or not but I do know this: It is a good film.
Yes, it is cheesy. Yes, we know how it ends. Yes, it brings nothing new to the party.
It is also honest about its intentions. It knows what it is and doesn’t aspire to be anything else. There are no tear stricken monologues edited with “And the Nominees are…” in mind. It isn’t elitist. It doesn’t revel in ignorance.
In fact, it’s better than a “Winner of 8 Oscars” tag.

The Cat Returns

Happy the girl and happy She alone, She who can call today her own: She who, secure within, can say, “Huzzah! My Cat is not dead! She is back at home sporting a new lampshade accessory!”

As you might guess, I am most happy that my Cat has returned mostly safe and sound. Richard, the other Vet (who I like very much and not just because he has the build of a Rugby player), has done a sterling job on her eye and has sent her home with a warning about seepage and instructions that she isn’t to have any excitement for a few weeks.
What he didn’t tell us is the how the Cat is supposed to cope with a lampshade on her head.

It began happily. Once she realised she was home, she immediately started pressing her head against her cat box to be let out. I opened the cat box door expecting her to bolt straight to her dinner but she didn’t. Instead, she got stuck.
I held her lampshade steady so she could get out of the box and put a bowl of water down for her. It took three goes but eventually she worked out that she could fit the entire lampshade over the bowl and have a drink. This didn’t work with the plate of chicken. The bottom of the lampshade rested on the plate and, when she moved forward to try and reach the meat, pushed it along the floor. Once I’d stopped laughing, I fed her by hand.

Having had a few goes at walking backwards to see if that would get rid of the lampshade, the Cat decided to have a sleep on the sofa in the hope that when she woke up, the horridness would be gone. It’s a technique she uses with Strider.
Having jumped up onto the sofa, she found she was face to face with the back cushions and when she tried to rotate, was stopped by her lampshade. Then she couldn’t lie down properly, because of the lampshade. She spent a few minutes rotating until she worked out she could dangle her head over the edge of the cushion and be comfortable.

Some time later, she decided to use her litter tray. She’s never been very good at this. She spends a long time deciding where she wants to dig but doesn’t actually Go in the hole she has made.
So. She gets on the tray. She rotates. She tries to sniff the litter. She can’t. Her lampshade is in the way. She walks forward a little and gets it jammed on the side of the tray. She tries to rotate but can’t. She walks backwards until free. She rotates. She tries to sniff the litter. She can’t… and so on for eight and a half minutes when she gives up, Goes where she is standing and wees all over the floor as usual.

She decides that after all that effort, she needs another sleep. She tries to go back to the sitting room but walks too close to the door frame and gets stuck. I move her lampshade to allow her access and wipe it clean with a Kills Everything Wipe.
This time she wants to sleep on the rug. Every time she lowers her head, the lampshade gets stuck on the pile and she thinks she can’t move. After a while she gives up and goes back to the sofa.
I sit next to her. She briefly considers my lap but the logistics defeat us both.

Presumably she will get used to this. It’s only been a day, after all. The main difficulty is how she is going to be able to eat. At the moment I am periodically holding a plate inside her cone for her to eat from but that is clearly not going a long term solution.
I’ve found a very small plate and have put it on an upturned bowl, the idea being that she can fit the cone around the plate and lower her head enough to get at the food. This rather depends on her aiming ability which is, as you can tell, not great. She has already spent a frustrated few minutes pushing the new arrangement around the kitchen floor.

So, if you are an engineer, I would like for you to design for me a device to allow a lampshade wearing cat to eat. The Cat in question is very clever, if rather belligerent, and can learn providing adequate bribery is applied. She also has quite short legs.

Still. On the upside, having a cone amplifies every noise she makes. She is very much looking forward to her 5am sing.

The Cat: Still with Two Eyeballs

You may know this already, but for those who don’t, I am the servant of a small British Blue Shorthaired Cat.
The Cat is very old. She is 18. This means she can vote but she doesn’t want to because she is an anarchist. She sometimes suffers from Hollow Legs which is a rare condition only curable by inhaling four packets of dinner and whatever she can steal from my plate. She is very fond of Marmite and of porridge, but only the latter if it has syrup on. She also likes cheese. She does not like Poultry flavoured dinners or the special Cat crunchies designed to clean her teeth.
Her favourite games are The Stair Game (sitting half way up the stairs and taking a swipe at the unsuspecting who pass below), The String Game (chasing a piece of string in circles until so dizzy she falls over) and The Faerie Game (leaping up walls after the reflections from peoples’ watches).
When not playing or eating, she enjoys sitting beneath the bird table with her mouth open, telling the squirrels off through the glass and going to sleep in the middle of a piece of furniture to prevent anybody else using it.

Over the last few years she has gradually begun to show the signs of old age. One of the symptoms was the paralysis of the cornea in her right eye, rendering it blind. Since then, the eyeball has gradually begun to swell and it is now at the point where it must be removed to prevent perforation and an infection to the brain.
Unfortunately, due to her age and her kidneys, it is not clear as to whether she can survive an anaesthetic.

This morning we took her to the Vet, Four Under Nine.
There are many wretched feelings in the world and one of the most wretched is the one caused by denying a Cat her breakfast, shoving her in a box and leaving her in a strange place with lots of other animals she takes an instant dislike to.
The eyeball couldn’t be removed today. Four Under Nine ran a blood test and decided that giving her lots of fluids over the next few days would improve her kidney functions, increase her chances and shorten the recovery time. Hopefully he will be able to do it on Wednesday.

This is one of the things I didn’t consider would happen. I thought I would be returning home either weeping quietly at the loss of my cat or else deeply relieved and laughing at her upside-down lampshade accessory. I didn’t prepare myself for leaving her there.

I keep thinking of her all alone in a strange place, meowing to be let out and nobody coming. I keep picturing her miserably hunched up in the corner of a cage, wondering what she did wrong to be abandoned by us.
Obviously this is the point at which my logic kicks in and reminds me that she is, after all, just a cat. She doesn’t have the acute emotions of a human being and anyway, she is probably being made a huge fuss of and milking Four Under Nine for every scrap of affection he can give. She is probably going to come home and turn her nose up at every delicacy I place before her and give me a look which very clearly says “When I was at Four Under Nine’s…”

Her absence has left me with a huge, gaping hole in my life. I hadn’t realised quite how much mental space she takes up. Every time I walk past the sitting room door I have to open it to check she isn’t on the other side attempting to open it with the power of her mind alone. When I finish this, I will go into the sitting room where I will not have to remove her from the sofa. She will not be stretched out in front of the fire. Her tongue will not flash in and out of her mouth as she dreams of mushroom soup. She will not wake me in the early hours demanding to be fed. She is just… not here.

That’s the problem with animals. People can take care of themselves. Except for when you are dealing with somebody very small, you can never consider yourself to be wholly responsible for somebody else. You are always responsible for an animal. You have to do the best for them but you can never be entirely confident that they understand.

I hope I will be able to go and visit her tomorrow, check she is doing alright and that the Veterinary Nurses aren’t the vindictive, power crazed lunatics Human nurses tend to be.

Until then, I miss her.

The Single Girl's Slightly Embittered Thoughts on Valentine's Day

Love. It’s all you need apparently. I always thought a healthy balanced diet, fresh air and exercise were all you need but I’m happy to stand corrected.

For me, it doesn’t matter that everybody else in the world spent yesterday in the arms of their beloved. Even if the Very Good Looking Estate Agent had pitched up on my doorstep with an enormous bouquet of white roses and a pair of tickets to Saint Petersburg, I would have told him to come back another day. It was Wales Vs England in the Six Nations and Wales won because they are super.

Anyway. Valentine’s day is one of those odd occasions. Like a funeral. It’s full of things we are “supposed” to do. We are “supposed” to send cards, chocolates, forecourt bouquets and sky divers to the person we love so they know how much we love them. We are “supposed” to take them out to dinner, possibly asking for joint ownership of all their current and future possessions during dessert. If we fail to do these things, tears and recriminations will follow.
If we are single, we are “supposed” to not mind. We are “supposed” to be independent women who jolly well don’t need a man to have a good time because dancing around a handbag with our Girlfriends is far more kicking than being wined, dined and retiring to a hotel room filled with rose petals.

It helps nobody that the shops and newspaper supplements are full of suggestions for what to buy a loved one for the Big Day. It only re-enforces the idea that a plastic figurine of a love smitten penguin is how we are all supposed to feel about each other. Do you feel a plastic figurine of a love smitten penguin adequately expresses how you feel about your loved one? Of course you don’t. You are enormously generous and cultured and went for the teddy bear holding a satin heart instead.

I run into the same quandary whenever I am required to buy a card for somebody. If they don’t contain a grimly unfunny joke about beer or women, they have a deeply naff poem about how wonderful everything is. I usually go for those hi-larious cards with a nonsensical one liner on them; “Wendell just knew the dancing would result in a hat,” and so forth.

There is probably some kind of point to be made here about the necessity of telling people how we feel, about not leaving it because it may one day be too late and about not confusing penguins with affection. I could make it, but I’m far too fond of penguins to do that.


In other news: The cat may or may not be having her eyeball removed on Monday. I tried to come up with a pithy Valentine’s Day joke involving the literal application of her becoming unable to take her eye(ball) off me but couldn’t quite find the phrasing. Submissions welcomed.

New Shampoo

As you can probably guess, I’m not really a girly girl. I don’t like pink, I don’t go “squee” over cute pictures of dogs or babies and I know all about the gold standard. Because I am not a girly girl, I don’t pay that much mind to lotions and potions and other things designed to part me from my hard earned dosh while making me irresistible to good looking men. Given my plans for Valentine’s Day, maybe I should start.

While a bit on the chunky side and the possessor of magnificently crazed hair, I am at least confident in my ability to leave the house makeup-free without causing people to recoil in horror or small children to tug anxiously on a parental sleeve asking “Mammy, what’s wrong with that lady’s face?” Mind you, I often have headphones in so they may already be doing this and I just haven’t noticed.
The thing about being on the chunky side, especially when you are a teenager, is that somewhere along the line there is an idea that it is okay to inhale donuts if you have a great personality and/or fantastic hair. Once you accept that only a world famine will cause you to ever see a UK size 12 again, you settle down and begin to cultivate one of these aspects of yourself, enjoying donuts as you do so.

Anyway. For some months now I’ve been using the John Freida “Chocolate to Espresso” Brunette shampoo. I bought a large quantity of it due to complicated reasons involving vouchers and a desire to Stick It To The Man (the Man in this instance being the man in charge of Tesco). In combination with the oats I eat, this has produced a head of very dark and shiny, if demented, hair.
Then I was in Boots. While in Boots I noticed they sold henna shampoo but it was not just any henna shampoo, it was shampoo with henna from Kew Gardens. Feel free to make impressed noises… now.

The nice thing about henna shampoo is that when I use it, it encourages the natural copper highlights I always claim my hair has without having to pay Niall the hairdresser enormous sums of money. The down side is that when you are in the shower, the tiles end up looking as though you have inadvertently sacrificed a small goat in there.

It is actually a very good time for encouraging my hair in a Ginger direction. Mad curls are already shaping up to be a big Look this year and with Paxman’s program on Victorian Art, the other one about the Pre-Raphaelites and the film Young Victoria coming out in a matter of weeks, I see chunky girls with red hair becoming very desirable indeed.

A girl can hope, right?

Sian: The Educational Hussy

You find me in something of a distracted mood today. Strider is hanging around in the background complaining about Eastenders but I’m not allowed to tell her to naff off because she has just handed me a cup of tea.

The second reason I’m distracted is, of course, the Six Nations Rugby tournament which kicked off this weekend with victories for Ireland over France, England over Italy and, I am very proud to say, Wales over Scotland. If you’ve never seen a Rugby match I urge you to watch one at once. Name me any other sport in the world in which you can hear a commentator say “That’ll be a yellow card… when he wakes up of course.”

The third reason for my distraction is a certain amount of lingual confusion. You see, recently I have been trying to improve my Welsh in the hope of becoming a fully paid up member of the Taffia.

I don’t speak much Welsh. I can count, enquire after your health and follow a Rugby commentary but that is about my limit. Now that I have broadband I have been studying it via the marvellous BBC website.
Along with the usual vocabulary lists and a man name Dewi explaining grammar to you, there are a number of short films concerning the life of a woman named Sian. I am already hooked.

Her day begins normally enough. She gets up, puts the kettle on and glares at her children until they wish her “Bore Da.” Then the doorbell rings. Rather excitingly, it is Danny, the new postman. He has a package but first he must check she is not some stranger cunningly pretending to live in a house other than her own in order to intercept it.
“Sian Davies dych chi?” He asks.
“Ie.” She replies, looking confused. She’s already told him she’s feeling tired so maybe she isn’t quite sure of her name.
He seems unwilling to take her word for it but swiftly hands the package over once her geeky, bespectacled son appears at the door. He is holding a triangular piece of toast which, I assume, passes for a deadly weapon in Swansea.
Sian takes the package inside. The label has been printed by a computer. If I were Sian I would find this highly suspicious and examine the brown paper for grease stains, loose wires or the smell of almonds. Instead she blithely opens it to find a single red rose.

Our story continues with Sian drinking “coffi” in a deserted bar. She is wearing a very low cut dress with the rose stuck in the cleavage, even though it is only three in the afternoon. Presumably her children are off experimenting with intravenous drugs in a doorway somewhere.
A swarthy young man enters the bar. At first I assume he has got lost on his way to a wedding as he has a rose in his lapel, but it turns out he is there to meet Sian. He introduces himself as Ed. Sian waggles her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

Later that evening, Ed presents himself at the leisure centre. It turns out his name isn’t Ed after all. His name is actually Edward. Now we know why Danny the new postman was so eager for Sian to confirm her identity earlier.
Edward tells the woman at reception he is there for “y cwrs Karate”. The woman checks her list.
The tension builds.
Edward is not on the list. The woman licks her lips nervously and asks Edward for his name again.
“Edward Morgan dw i,” He tells her.
She checks the list again. He is still not on it.
Edward takes a poster from his pocket and brandishes it in a wimpy non-threatening manner. He reads it aloud for the benefit of everybody.
Just when it seems as though disaster will occur, the woman realises she is looking at the Tae Kwon Do list! Oh how they laugh together. She wouldn’t be laughing so much if this wasn’t Edward’s first lesson; instead she’d be lying on the floor in a pool of her own unhelpfulness. She should watch herself.
She apologises and directs him to Room Three, pointing vaguely in what I expect will turn out to be the wrong direction.

So endeth lesson one. Next time: Exchanging information!

Trying to be Good

While I appreciate and value the small dark side of my personality which makes horrible and cynical comments about pretty much anything you care to name, I do feel it is important that I make the effort to be Good. This is not just because I fear that when I die I will be met by a grinning dog waving a feather but because I feel it is the right thing to do; hence I slow down to let people in when I am driving (unless they are in a BMW or in an Audi with a suit hanging in the back), I let people go in front of me at the checkout if they have only a couple of things and I have a lot and should I make eye contact with somebody, I smile.
Something I don’t do is talk to people. If I wanted to make excuses about it I could claim it is because I am British, stiff upper lip and all that. It is, after all, one of the national characteristics to pretend that something unpleasant doesn’t exist whether it be a terrible meal in a restaurant, a large pool of vomit on the floor of a train carriage or a weeping person in need of some help. I always feel that it isn’t my place to get involved, that it isn’t my business.
Yesterday it was.

I was in the supermarket.
To be precise, I was in the fruit aisle looking at the Granny Smith’s before deciding on Braeburn instead. I had my stereo in my ears and began to walk forwards but, for whatever reason, I happened to turn my head enough to see that behind me a woman was sitting on the floor, her phone pressed to her ear and a man crouched beside her looking concerned. After a further surreptitious glance I realised she was utterly distraught and crying into her phone.
I stopped. I pretended to examine the rhubarb. I wondered if I should go over there and see if there was anything I could do to help. The very British part of me was saying no, that there was already somebody with her and that it wasn’t my place to. I glanced over again.
She was crying harder and the man looked uncomfortable, clearly unsure of what to do. I looked at her and a number of thoughts occurred to me.
First: That girl needs a hug.
Second: That man can’t hug her because he is a man.
Third: If Mammy were here, Mammy would already be hugging her.
Fourth: Mammy is not here.
Fifth: I have arms. I also have a hanky.
Sixth: Mammy would want me to help her.
Seventh: A word or a gesture can do more than you believe it will.

I gave her the hanky and I gave her a hug.
She was incoherent with grief and barely aware of what was going on around her. She answered the phonecalls on her mobile automatically without any real consciousness of what she was doing, reassuring the person on the other end that she was going to finish the shopping and then she’d be right there. From what she was saying, I understood her to have just been informed that a close male relative, or friend, had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
She was my age or maybe a little older. She had a child whom she had to pick up from Playzone. She had black hair and blue eyes and an accent that sounded Anglo-Irish at times. When a member of staff brought her some water, her hand was shaking so hard that she could barely drink it.
She kept repeating it: “He’s got Parkinson’s. He’s only 31.”
I hugged her and rubbed her arm. I told her it would be okay.
I said it to her again as she went with the staff to have a cup of tea but I have no idea if it went in. I hope it did and I hope that she understood what I meant.

Things are always okay. That is their nature. Everybody copes with whatever gets thrown at them because nobody gets the choice not to. You do it well or you do it badly but you always do it. Eventually.

It would be fatuous of me to indicate my hopes for her and her family but nevertheless, I still hope that she finds the strength and the peace within herself to do more than she thinks she is capable of. I hope she is not alone in this and I hope she can do what she needs to.

Which Animal which may or may not be found on a farm are you?

Following on from the resounding success of “Which method of wasting valuable office time are you?” we are proud to bring you this: a personality quiz so accurate you may feel the need to gasp and finger the back of your skull to ensure we are not peering into your brain.
As before, simply add up the number of each letter before looking to the bottom of the page to reveal the inner You. Pencils at the ready?


1) Your boss has decided to give all his staff an interview to decide if he would employ them if he was given his choice again. Unfortunately, he has delusions of being an Oxbridge tutor and has asked you the following: “If you were a fruit cut into the shape of a star, what kind of knife would have been necessary?”

a) A Bread Knife
b) A Butcher’s Knife
c) A Swiss Army Knife
d) A Stiletto
e) A Machete


2) Oh dear. That didn’t go well. You are now on the unemployment scrapheap and the only food you have is a jar of Chicken Tonight which has lurked at the back of your cupboard since time immemorial. The jar suggests that adding raisins and yoghurt will make it Tasty. You have neither. What will you add instead?

a) Grass. Just Say No, kids.
b) Some vegetable peelings, extra vitamins you see.
c) Anything. I’m not fussy.
d) Something sweet. Sweetness is good.
e) I have some Chocolate cake with chilli in it. That’s bound to make it taste great.


3) That combination turned out to be a grave mistake. Good job the hospital is so close, eh? Continuing the good news, your doctor has decided to let you be a guinea pig in his mad experiments until you’ve paid off your toxicology bill. He’s even given you a choice as to which one you will take part in. Which type of experiment do you choose?

a) The one requiring you to digest food four times.
b) Some kind of SAS course where you live in trenches and enjoy fresh air.
c) The one where you are exposed to Julie Andrews until you become a Better Person.
d) A Mathematical one involving interlocking shapes and the like.
e) The one where you attempt to translate the ancient writings of lost empires. Just like on the Krypton Factor!


4) Ah. You didn’t sign that document waving your right to sue him did you? Right. Well. Never mind. What pattern of sock would you like to clad your jaunty new extra foot in?

a) Black and White.
b) Pink!
c) One made out of the curtains.
d) Pringle; it’s the sock of golfers.
e) I’ve got a bit of an Aztec vibe going at the moment. Got anything Peruvian?


5) Gosh, what a week it has been! I think you should cheer yourself up with a spot of karaoke. To which track are you going to leap enthusiastically up on stage and shake your booty?

a) Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West) by Benny Hill
b) Flying Without Wings by Westlife
c) Some old school Celine Dion. Back before she had her teeth nicened.
d) Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm by The Crash Test Dummies
e) Anything by Shakira




Added up your answers? Then let’s see what you are!

Mostly A’s – Congratulations! You are a Cow!
Cows are lovely, just like you. Everybody loves a cow even though they smell a bit and have a tendency to get huge amounts of snot over their friends, just like you. You don’t seem like the sharpest tool in the box but it is all an elaborate façade. Behind that placid gaze you have the cunning dexterity of a Polish Sushi Chef.
Your Lucky Disease is Creutzfeldt-Jakob and your Lucky Newspaper is the Daily Mail.

Mostly B’s – Congratulations! You are a Pig!
Pigs! The practical jokers of the world! You like nothing better than leaving the tracks of your cloven hoofs around the houses of Mormons to trick them into believing the Devil has been. You are also very practical and down to earth which makes you enormously popular in Yorkshire. Only your irrational dislike of mirrors is preventing your conquest of the world. Maybe you should put more effort in.
Your Lucky Fish is John Dory and your Lucky Paint Chart is Farrow and Ball.

Mostly C’s – Congratulations! You are a Goat!
Mobile dustbin, producer of cheese, ward of Heidi; you are all of these things and more. While your truthful wholesomeness is endearing, your pedantry is not. This is why you get blamed for things which are not your fault. You probably work in a post office and if you don’t, you should definitely consider it as your next career move.
Your Lucky Government Department is the Inland Revenue and your Lucky Home Shopping Network is QVC.

Mostly D’s – Congratulations! You are a Bee!
*sings* Oh what a glorious thing to be! A healthy grownup bizzy buzzy bee! *desists from singing* You are exacting and precise, working behind the scenes to make things happen. You are very good at counting up to four. Some people fear you but others are enchanted by your distinctive fashion stylings. Best cut back on the velvet though. It’s so 1998.
Your Lucky Gardener is Bob Flowerdew and your Lucky Historical Document is the Order of Execution for Lady Jane Gray.

Mostly E’s – Congratulations! You are a Llama!
Exotic. That’s how you are best described. You do things your own way and spit at people who try to make you do any different. You care a great deal about your hair and spend many hours polishing it to ensure it is soft and shiny. My top tip would be to eat more linseed. It’s what they give to horses you know.
Your Lucky County of Missouri is Ozark and your Lucky Telephone Provider is Talktalk.