The Meaning of Fluff.

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August 30, 2013 by jeliwobble

I am not the cleanliest of housekeepers and, well, we have a long haired cat and several long haired children, as well as sofa cushion fringes that like to tempt tiny fingers to pluck them. It doesn’t seem to matter how well I vacuum, to be honest; by the time I put the vacuum away, the cat has shed another three tumbleweeds and Smallest daughter has left a trail of golden threads.

When Eldest daughter was small, she was absolutely petrified of fluff. She would scream the house down if you tried to hug her and you had the temerity to have the smallest bobble of hair on your clothing. Due to my relative lack of vacuuming, fluff is an integral part of our lives, so there were many occasions of fluff-induced wailing.

This is also the child who would happily stand in the garden, stretching into the Cranesbill flowers, capturing bees in her tiny little hands and letting them go with a giggle when they buzzed and tickled her.

Fluff, she was scared of; bees were funny.

Being afraid of parts of our environment that won’t actually harm us, while simultaneously being happy to pull the tail of a tiger, so to speak, seems to be part of the human condition. Here we are, angry at ‘illegal immigrants‘ and frightened of ‘the paedophile on every corner‘ and worried about ‘Frankenfood*’, while government reduces our civil liberties (abortion, voter identificationlax gun laws) and enters into wars without so much as a by-your-leave. And we’re all there behind them, shouting our support, because they’ve promised to put more money in our pockets one way or another.

*The jury is still out on Frankenfood. The science is sound but, really, there are better ways to get frost-resistant crops than sticking a fish gene in it.


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