Conversations with Wonka - part one

by Madeleine Masterson

  Wonka was not without a small fan base, with me naturally, at the top of his adoring fans. A small friend of ours called Thomas and I say small in terms of age rather than personality. I think Thomas is probably about 30ish masquerading as a boy of five. Well he and Wonka became acquainted about two years ago, Golly quickly resuming second place in his affections. Being Golly, and therefore oozing with christ-like tendencies, his unconditional love reaches everywhere and it is alright. Wonka, who looks like a buddha cat but is firmly materialistic, competitive and seeks pleasure all the time, is pleased to be first in anyone’s affections especially Thomas’. Invited to comment, usually by phone, on seemingly insignificant events eg Thomas riding a two-wheeled bike for the first time, Wonka raises his game.

  ‘I think you’re marvellous!! – and so does Golliboot!’. Wonka almost always speaks on Golly’s behalf now – sometimes though, Golly’s unique wisdom breaks through.

  Infact come to think about it, if Golly were to say enough is enough, then Wonka would reign it in. Their playfights hold testament to this, as it is always Wonka who backs down and hides behind the settee or under the table.

  “ Golly can’t see me! He chortles, and “Sorry Golly!” in case he can. Yes Wonka is on the money he really is. Another thing, I realised, and again I have Wonka to thank. A while back I thought I would be a counsellor – I have always shunned this gentle art preferring the more tortuous route of working it out for myself.

  A long standing admirer of Carl Jung, this seemed however arduous, a life long task that had riches aplenty. A further conversation with Wonka on the subject of another Carl, reinforced this view.

  I had taken to calling Golly, ‘Daddy Golly’. This may have been prompted by Wonka, who was smallish and youngish once. As a means of saying, Golly knows best. Wonka though, pointed out the psychology of this to me the other day. “He’s not my Daddy!” he chirped and continued with “ and he’s not yours either!” I had of course pondered on the resurrection of my Dad, now in wood carving heaven, via the cats. He had loved cats all his life.

  I also imagined sitting in one of those confrontational groups where you ,one by one, ‘tell all’. Supposedly with the loving but firm guidance of a professional. Wonka questioned this immediately. “You can’t tell me that kind of thing works…” Well, it all depends on……….

  “Superficial claptrap!” shrieked Wonka, and although he didn’t talk of transference, or organic selves or any of that therapy jargon, he was getting there. I mean, did it matter if Dad was back in our lives courtesy of Golly? Wonka’s down to earth approach definitely challenged anything airy fairy.

  Carl Rogers’ army of bland beings, all having reached their potential and all the more boring for it – was I missing out? The dark wood of the psyche eh.

  Wonka was becoming a familiar face at the front bay window. Leaping onto the sill as I left the house, advising me from the other side of the glass, so he would be there on my return. He also popped out on the main sill, sitting next to a snow leopard called Maximillian. Just as a treat for walkers by, I often decorated the big cat, excelling myself on the day of the eagerly awaited royal wedding. He sported a pink and silver plastic tiara and fake blue sapphire engagement ring. It was noticed and Wonka only knocked the ring off towards the end of the day.

  Anyhow, so Wonka greeted me long before I shuffled into the hallway with work bags shopping bags and swimming bags and the rest. Oh that would be the lightweight cat litter that will do fine come the revolution. This particular day I turned up at the door in a bit of a state. The rusty thing I had in my hand was the spare front door key long buried in a plant pot and which broke immediately in the lock. Just a small panic as I imagined not just being locked out of the skylark (the entire set of keys nestling on the back seat) but having to get someone to sort out the front door. The half a broken key fell out though, and I thanked my lucky stars.

  ‘ We’re starving me and Golly! Get a move on Mum!” Wonka shouted at me through the glass. “I’m trying to get in.” I whispered back. Stress levels were high and the locking of the car door and then looking through the window at my keys was testament to this.

  Strangely, it was the first of a series of bank hols and Easter was first up. At a time like this, neighbourly love, or any sign of a benevolent influence is extra special. With Wonka gazing on, I began my encounter with said neighbour and influence.

  “ I’ve always liked him! “ cheeped Wonka when I finally returned. “ You need to chill out!!” as he leapt towards the kitchen overtaking Golly in the rush to get fed. Swearing fairly quietly and acknowledging stress levels, I wondered at the miracle of the retrieval. This neighbour had professed a knowledge of opening car door locks with a wire. Twenty minutes on, and still not in a full blown panic or anywhere near to crying, I stayed calm. He had appeared moments after I locked myself out of the skylark and answered immediately to my statement of: “ You’ve got to help me!” Off he zoomed to his garage to get the car breaking into equipment. The old skylark should be a piece of cake I advised him, been broken into millions of times. Hmmm.

  I shifted my gaze from the piece of wire, tantalisingly close to pulling the lock up but each time bobbing away, to Wonka. He was still in the front bay window looking over at us. “Why?” he would have been thinking.

  “Shall I have a go?” – I took the wire from the neighbour and then, then the hand of God reached down and guided mine. A second later the wire had clinched onto the door lock. “What do I do now!” I prayed the wire would do what we wanted it to, and then we heard that satisfying click.

  Wonka has vowed to leave the flowers alone. He loves flowers and demonstrates this by pulling them out of their vases and playing with them. Eating them sometimes.

  “Pack it up!” I say to him. “Sorry” he shouts back. And he is sorry of course he is. Golly continues as a benign and higher being, sleeping peacefully in Wonka’s best spot on the settee. Baba has been wormed and brushed. This caused me a mild anxiety attack in case I had got the dose wrong.

  “ He’ll be fine “ advised Wonka on guard on the sideboard with a fine view out the back. And “ You worry about nothing!”

  He is so right.