(this post is most definitely not suitable for vegans*)#

*lots of animals die, albeit except one, none ends up as a source of nourishment

Let me ponder for a while the similar ways my family fails in life, stretching from attempts on sauciness to pets being annihilated.

I had my mum on the Skype yesterday. Since the nest has been empty for a while now, one of my usual question is "How's the new kitten doing?"

Much to a shame of our family, the answer - like yesterday - more often than not being
'Which one?'

Just so you understand, that's not because my mum turned into a crazy cat-lady. On the contrary, there's always only one pet at a time. It's just hard to keep track as for which cat we've discussed the last time we spoke, as the turn-over due to the tragic demise from various causes, is exceptionally high.

Keeping an animal companion in our family is always well-intended, and always ill-fated affair. Much like all my naked selfies and outdoor sex efforts.

Last time I wanted to grace my boyfriend with a picture of my naked bum, considerably inflated and lifted by a hardcore squat session at the gym, I had to climb on the bench in the changing room and spent too much time positioning myself in the mirror with the pants (yes, UNDERPANTS) down. When another guy entered the changing room from the showers (I really thought I was alone in there), meaning with his face exactly in the line with my exposed bum cheeks, I panicked so much as to fall from the bench, my rear still naked, landing on the phone shattering the screen along with my dignity.

I love Clapham Common. It's a vast flat surface they try to sell to people as a park, when in fact it's only a grassy platform for people of London to sit at during the hot months (correction - weeks, correction - not hot, but somewhat tepid) and indulge in some passion fruit flavoured cider with Tesco sushi selection.

With just about ten or fifteen trees on 220 acres, Clapham Common is a place gravely unfit for having sex.

Yet, very much like my dearest parents, against all the reason, that's where I decided to indulge in a late night snack of a different type and let me tell you this - to be interrupted at the peak of passion, both you and your boyfriend with the pants by your ankles, leaning against the tree in the pitch black park, by a swift rustling of someone's steps, and to notice in that darkness just the white sweatpants marching directly at you, is something that stays with you.

To my defense, I had no idea this is a well known cruising area and that there are people out there who randomly hang around bushes of Clapham Common at night in a hope to find individuals to have sex with. Not in the times of all the apps aka sex catalogs, from which you can order, collect and deliver in literally few minutes.

I think it goes without saying that any act of sexiness became impossible for a while after this, both psychologically and physically.#

As the karma (always with a naughty and a bit mean sense of humour) would have it, the very next morning, I went for a Sunday run to clear my mind in the Norwood forrest, only to interrupt two grandads performing oral sex on each other in the bushes. And by grandads I don't mean a gay-bitchy-condesedning-anyone-over-forty grandads. I mean a couple of 70+ Santa Clauses, and what the heck happened to the good old erectile dysfunctions?!

Emma sorted my shocked little self with a shot of gin and a joke about a Sunday worship that I've just crashed into, and I was ready to swear off any sexual activities for good (or at least until another naked gym selfie is needed).

(As a side note, please, before you call PETA, the family curse does not include dogsitting!)

Like me, my mum and dad never learn to let go of the concept of pets, regardless the mounting evidence against it.

My grandmother always had a dog called Dick. (yes, that's not a joke)

It wasn't always the same dog, same breed or same gender.
There were many Dicks in my grandma's life, all shapes and sizes (K, I'll stop milking this... Oops), and they all shared the name and cause of death.

The busy crossroad just outside my grandparents house.
When she refused to let us help building a fence around the garden, so the dogs would have no access to the road, even after the sixth or seven casualty, we ceased all the inquires. As for us and our seemingly immortal pup, a beloved angry little fucker (Yorkshire terrier, do I need to say more?) called Taily, he lasted in good health until the blessed age of thirteen when, surprise surprise, we've moved to my grandma's house.

Thanks to the mounting bodies and my harassment of the authorities, a roundabout was built about a year after Taily's demise in the place of the crossroad to slow down the traffic, and my grandma's house is now fully fenced.

There were many fails before, including my four year old self flushing all the fish (that my brother was taking care of for his friend who went on holiday!) , in the toilet when trying to help and change the water in the fish tank.

Mysterious disappearances of a multitude of hamsters (my dad convinced me they all committed suicide by jumping off the balcony because they couldn't stand looking at my face) and lately my parent's relentless attempts on keeping a cat.

I kindly asked not to be updated on the grisly details after my mum (a hugely desensitised nurse) went all Edgar Allan Poe on me over the Skype, describing the moment she's found their two weeks old kitten called Max almost surgically dissected from the throat to the groin and drained of all the blood by a marten (which is usually only killing our chicken but lately broadening it's pallette to accommodate mammals).

Max was given a proper burial (I'm shocked there's still a place in our garden) only to be reunited with my mum and dad two weeks later, when the new cat dug up his decomposing body and put it in my parents bed as a welcome gift.

"MOM!! Take the hint finally for godsake! Someone up there does really not want you to have pets!"

I screamed at the screen.

But as a carrier of the same genom, I know they will keep failing and keep refusing to give up, and as soon as the temperatures drop again in spring, all you park perverts, get ready to compete for space.

The game is on. It's always on!