Fetishes

WhatsApp was full of messages; the children saying goodnight, Gabby asking if he could have a Maine Coon and a series of non-sensical messages from my Micro Technique boys trying to get out of my lesson on Wednesday.  
I told Gabby to pretend Bernie was a big cat, I told my boys to improve their French.  At times it feels like a Sisyphusian (?) task trying to teach the boys English when they can't write in their mother tongue.
I've capitulated to Gabby's fetishes for 15 years.  The first was wild boars; he'd draw tusks on his face with my eyeliner and waddle around in my fake fur coat.  He went through Dalmatians, semi-precious stones, fossils, model boats.  The Beach Boys lead him into surfing and Lynyrd Skynyrd  drew him into Country and then blues.  The worst was his taxidermy period when he filled his room with badly stuffed and stitched foxes and weasels.
This evening:
Nico is spread eagled on the ground and the dog is flat out, with 12kms in his legs and the smell of stream water in his fur.  I've checked both of them are alive and they seem to be.
I tiptoe around them to get to the gin palace which is blissfully quiet.
I too have my obsessions; charity shops in N. London.  They don't exist here so I don't know how to buy clothes anymore. 
I picked up this little panel of stained glass for a song in one such shop.  It's been schlepped around all over the place, but never found its place until today.
The Maine Coon's place is not here - they're too big and you have to brush them 24/7 or they get fur balls.
Case closed.