When the cat’s away the mice will play, isn’t that what they say? Damn right that’s what they say and the very same goes for egos – when consciousness is away then the little egos will play. Sure they will. Just watch – can’t you see them playing? Playing about, playing about. Doing this and doing that. Messing about, messing about, the way they do. The way those old egos do. They’re a laugh aren’t they, those old egos? Although at the same time they’re frighteningly tedious too as we all know very well. You’d go mad with boredom watching them really wouldn’t you? Can you imagine anything worse? Anything more appalling? Than those bloody old egos and their ceaseless carry-on. It’s meaningful to them of course – it’s meaningful to them I know. They’re at it all the bloody time after all. They can’t get enough of it. Whatever ‘it’ is. Whenever their special ego-type ‘business’ is. Playing about, playing about. Scurrying here and scurrying there. They’ll run away quick enough when the cat comes along though, I’ll tell you that! By Jingo that’ll put a stop to their damnable scampering. They’ll disappear fast enough then that’s for sure. They don’t like that old cat you see. No sir they don’t! They don’t like him at all. Not that the cat ever does show itself though, and I guess that’s something we have to bear in mind. It never does show itself and as a result those bloody old mice are everywhere. Wherever you look there’s mice, isn’t that right? Climbing up the curtains, climbing down the curtains, running out from under the fridge, running around like crazy little bastards all over the lino floor, crapping in the carpet, partying like there’s no tomorrow, in fact. It’s alright if you like mice I suppose. All right if you like mice. What happened to the fricking cat, you might ask? What’s that cat fricking playing at? Only it’s not the cat that’s playing it’s those bastard mice, of course. Which is to say, the jolly old egos. All right if you like egos of course, but who does? Let’s face it, who likes bloody egos? They haven’t exactly got a lot to recommend them, after all – they haven’t exactly got a lot of good qualities. Are they loyal and trustworthy like a Labrador or Golden Retriever, for example? No they’re certainly not – they’re treacherous little bastards and you can’t trust them an inch. Are they clean in their habits, like a well-trained family pet? No they’re not. Needless to say they’ll shit anywhere – they’re famous for shitting on their own doorstep. They’re famous for fouling their own nests. They’ll foul your nest too course. They’ll foul it good and proper, for sure they will. The stink will kill you, so it will. Do they perhaps sing sweetly like songbirds do, we might innocently ask? The answer is of course ‘No, certainly not!’ They moan and complain and gripe and grumble from morning till night. And even when they’re in good form they will still annoy you with the garbage they come out. Twisted little fuckers that they are. Who likes them? They don’t even like themselves. They don’t even like themselves because they’re always fighting and feuding and squabbling and backbiting. Isn’t that true? Little bastards that they are. ‘Whatever happened to the old cat?’ – that’s what I want to know…