Mackenzie's Goodbye

It was the last day of Mackenzie’s life.

No one else knew that, of course. Not the wind that rustled the leaves above, nor the empty roundabout that creaked in the background. Not the seesaw, sun-warmed and motionless. But Mackenzie knew. His body had grown slower, his eyes dimmer, his heart heavier—but there was one more thing he needed to do. One more goodbye to the place that had once echoed with his laughter and the shouts of friends running wild through the grass.

So he went to the playground one last time. Alone.

He tried everything, even if just for a moment. He nudged the roundabout into motion with his paw, climbed the steps of the slide slowly but surely, giggling under his breath as he sat at the top. He went down slowly, landing with a soft thud. Then, finally, he made his way to the swing—the same swing where he’d once sat after school, chatting with Bluey and Rusty, dreaming of adventures.

And there he stayed. The chains creaked gently as he swayed, the breeze brushing through his fur.

And that’s where they found him.

The next morning, his grandpups ran ahead to the playground like they always did. They were the ones who saw him first. At first, they thought he was asleep. It wasn’t until their mum caught up, calling his name and dropping to her knees beside him, that the truth began to settle like fog around them.

Tears came—confused, frightened sobs from little ones who’d just lost their grandfather. But the loudest cries came from their mum, Mackenzie’s daughter, who held his still paw and whispered his name over and over, like maybe he’d wake up if she just said it enough times.

She buried him near his favourite tree—the one he always pointed out on their walks, the one that turned the brightest gold in autumn. The pups helped, their small paws brushing earth over his resting place. Their tears were quiet now. Confused. Reverent.

And when they stood back, they all stared up at that tree together. No one spoke.

There’s a hole in the world when someone good leaves it. Mackenzie was one of the good ones.

Even though he’s gone, I imagine the playground remembers him. Every creak of the swing, every clatter of paws on the slide, every giggle that rings through the air—echoes of a dog who never stopped being a pup at heart.

And somewhere, under the shade of that golden tree, he rests in peace.

Mackenzie & Socks

There’s something beautifully magical about seeing beloved Bluey characters grow up and begin families of their own—and artist Faeshirem has captured this vision so perfectly in their tender, heartfelt fanart of Mackenzie and Socks all grown up, now parents to two adorable pups named Rings and Artemis.

Set against a bright green landscape with rolling hills and clear blue skies, this image radiates warmth and a deep familial bond. Mackenzie, ever the loyal and brave boy from his childhood, has matured into a strong yet gentle dad. His fur is now streaked with expressive dark and light patterns, and he wears a subtle pride on his face—he knows how lucky he is. Socks, once a playful toddler who grew up in the shadows of older cousins Bluey and Bingo, now glows with confidence and individuality. Her deep purple curls and soft lavender fur hint at her artistic, nurturing soul.

Their daughters—Rings and Artemis—are the shining lights of their lives. Rings, the older of the two, has inherited her dad’s curiosity and sense of wonder. She loves climbing trees, stargazing with a telescope, and pretending she’s a mighty adventurer. Artemis, slightly younger and always eager to keep up, is the family’s dreamer. She creates little moon maps in her drawing books, writes her own constellations, and believes every butterfly she sees is delivering a message from the sky.

As a family, their favorite time of day is the evening—when the sky turns dusky pink and the first stars begin to peek through. Mackenzie and Socks lead their girls on evening walks through the fields, where they play shadow games and tell stories about mythical dogs who live in the clouds. When they get home, they curl up on a big soft couch with cocoa in hand (and sometimes marshmallows for the pups), and Socks plays gentle music while Mackenzie reads from their favorite space storybook, Tales of the Night Sky.

On weekends, they visit art parks or quiet lakes, where Rings and Artemis can explore to their hearts’ content. Sometimes they pretend they’re on an expedition to another world; sometimes they simply lie on picnic blankets, watching birds fly by. Their family motto? "There’s magic in every moment—as long as we’re together."

Faeshirem’s art reminds us how fan creations can breathe new life into characters we’ve known since their earliest days. This beautiful family portrait of Mackenzie, Socks, Rings, and Artemis is more than just a piece of fanart—it’s a glimpse into a future filled with love, connection, and imagination.

Here’s to more stories like theirs. 💫

Are Mike Mercury & Dr Beaker In Love?

There’s something oddly tender lurking beneath the surface of Supercar—a show packed with early '60s optimism, crackling adventure, and marionette-stringed heroics. But on rewatch, particularly during those episodes where it’s just Mike Mercury and Dr Beaker out on a mission, I find myself wondering: is there something more going on between these two?

It’s a strange feeling. A soft, unspoken kind of closeness. Not the flashy kind. Not something spelled out. But something secret. Something coded.

Let’s take stock. Mike Mercury is the classic square-jawed hero—confident, daring, with that smooth voice and cocky charm. Dr Beaker, on the other hand, is nervous, intellectual, awkward, always fumbling for the right word but never without a quiet sort of loyalty. Together, they’re opposites, and yet… they work. Really well. Suspiciously well.

And it's when they're alone—no Jimmy Gibson, no Mitch the monkey, no Professor Popkiss—that something subtle starts to shimmer. Mike never rolls his eyes at Beaker’s fumbling explanations. Instead, he listens. He actually listens. And Beaker, for all his quirks and trembles, seems more confident beside Mike—like Mike's presence grounds him. Watch any mission with just the two of them and you'll start to feel it too. A glance held a little longer than usual. A soft “You all right, Beaker?” after an explosion rocks the craft. Beaker’s bashful smile in return.

I don’t think the show meant for us to see it this way. But that’s the thing about these old shows—you start reading between the lines, and suddenly what was meant as simple partnership begins to feel like something richer, more hidden. Something that might’ve existed behind closed doors in the quiet of the Supercar hangar. A warmth that only ever emerges once the engines are humming and the mission is on.

Could it be that Mike Mercury and Dr Beaker are secretly in love?

Not in any big, dramatic way. But in the way quiet men of the '60s might be: respectful, cautious, wrapped in duty. Their love, if it’s there, is made of sideways glances and unsaid understandings. The kind of love that doesn’t demand attention—but is felt all the same.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why Supercar still has a strange pull. Not just because of the wild missions or the novelty of the puppet tech—but because somewhere deep beneath the action and the heroics is a love story nobody talks about. One that never says a word… but is somehow always there, riding silently in the passenger seat.

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Do you feel it too? Or is it just me projecting onto some old marionettes again?

Torchy: The Boy Behind The Blackouts

🎵 Torchy the Battery Boy… he’s got a torch for a head and a heart full of dread… he’s the one who’ll steal your light when you go to bed! 🎵

Ah, Torchy the Battery Boy. A relic from a simpler time? Or the puppetmaster behind one of Britain's darkest decades? While the nation fondly remembers blackouts and candlelit dinners as part of the 1970s charm, what if I told you it wasn’t the oil crisis or miners’ strikes behind it all… but a smug little marionette with a voltage vendetta?

Torchy was Gerry Anderson’s second television series — pre-Thunderbirds, pre-Captain Scarlet, pre-anything remotely heroic. He was a small, freakishly chipper boy with a literal flashlight for a head. Sounds harmless, right? Wrong. Torchy wasn’t powered by batteries — he consumed them. Gobbled them up like sweets. And when he ran out? He started draining entire power grids. Silent. Systematic. Sinister.

Picture this: it’s 1972. You’re midway through Coronation Street and suddenly — click — darkness. No power. No warning. Just the faint, eerie flicker of a beam shining through the hedgerow. A beam shaped like a boy with empty eyes and a suspiciously charged torch-head. That wasn’t a dream. That was Torchy.

They said the three-day week was government policy. They said it was the unions. They never once questioned the creepy puppet with the unlimited supply of Ever Readies. He was feeding. He was planning.

Why do you think Torchy disappeared from TV after just one series? It wasn’t because kids didn’t like him. It was because MI5 got involved. You can’t have a puppet draining the National Grid just because he wants to play catch in the Land of Nod. They had to take him out of circulation. Some say he’s locked in a Faraday cage somewhere under Whitehall. Others say he’s back — hiding in your attic, blinking softly every time your smart meter goes haywire.

Oh Torchy, you really are the most evil little thing, aren’t you?

Snuggles In The Grass

The day began with the shimmer of sunlight kissing the surface of the lake, dappling soft ripples across the cool, clear water. Lady Penelope, with her bare feet resting on smooth stones, knelt in the shallows, holding my tiny baby self gently in her arms. I kicked my feet and squealed with delight as she bathed me, the water soothing and cool against the warmth of the day. Her touch was tender, her fingers gliding softly across my skin, washing away the dust of our morning adventure beneath the wild mango trees. She giggled with me as she lifted me high and let the water drip in sparkling droplets from my toes, her voice light and honeyed like a summer breeze.

When our play was done, she stepped carefully out of the lake and reached for a wide, soft palm leaf. With slow, loving sweeps, she dried me, humming low and gentle all the while, a rhythm I’d heard many times before but never quite remembered, something that always felt like home. I cooed in her arms, eyes fluttering sleepily already as she pressed me against her bare chest, the comforting beat of her heart a lullaby in itself.

She carried me into the grasslands, the tall golden blades whispering and swaying as we passed through, brushing against her legs and shoulders like blessings from the earth itself. The sky above us stretched endlessly, a dome of deep blue humming with quiet heat. Lady Penelope moved with the grace of someone utterly unburdened, her long limbs swaying gently, her blonde hair catching the sunlight like threads of silk. She breathed deeply, taking in the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth, the freedom of the wilderness soaking into her soul. With each step, she seemed to grow lighter, her face lit by a kind of deep joy only the wild can bring.

Then, without a word, she spun around in a circle and clutched me close to her chest, laughing, and fell backward into the soft, sweet-smelling grass. We both erupted in giggles, tangled in the blades, our bodies warm and golden in the light. The grass wrapped around us like a cradle, swaying gently in the wind. She rolled onto her side and pressed her cheek to mine, her breath warm against my ear.

She whispered softly, words I didn’t yet understand but felt deep in my little heart: “Lala salama, mtoto wangu.” Sleep peacefully, my child. She told me she’d heard these words from kind, weathered voices in a village far beyond the hills, voices that taught her gentleness in another tongue. The syllables dripped from her lips like a song already sung by the land. Then, in the hush of the grassland breeze, she began to sing a lullaby in Swahili, her voice rich, slow, and lilting, rocking me back and forth.

I nestled into her arms, heavy with sleep, tiny hands curling into her soft skin. As I drifted into dreams, a great, golden lion appeared from the edge of the grass, his eyes calm, his steps slow. He did not come to hunt, only to share the stillness of our world. He lay beside us, sighing deeply, and Lady Penelope reached out and stroked his thick, soft fur. Her fingers sank into it like clouds, and the lion closed his eyes with a rumble of contentment.

Soon, three clumsy cubs bounded out of the grass, tumbling over their father and each other with wild joy. One of them clambered onto Lady Penelope’s lap, mewling softly. She gathered it into her arms, cradling it just like she held me. She pressed her nose to its little face and gave it a kiss, whispering a giggle as it blinked and snuggled closer.

The sun began its long descent, turning the sky the colour of ripe mangoes and old honey. Slowly, one by one, we all fell into sleep. The lion curled around us protectively, the cubs nestled between our bodies and his, and Lady Penelope wrapped her arms around me once more.

Much later, as the stars twinkled above in the deep velvet sky, Lady Penelope opened her eyes and stared up into the cosmos. The night air was cooler now, brushing our skin with a whisper. I was still sleeping soundly, safe and warm against her.

She leaned her head close to mine and whispered, “You know, darling… Mufasa was right. The Great Kings of the Past watch over us from the stars.” Her fingers brushed my cheek. “And one day, they’ll align the planets just for you. Just for you, my sweet little star.”

And beneath that wide, starlit African sky, we all stayed nestled together, in a world as soft and loving as a dream.

Brownies, Peppa Meets The Baby & Four Feather Falls

Today was one of those quietly golden days—the kind that leaves little pockets of warmth in your memory. I wanted to take a moment to write down the three things I’m most thankful for, not just to remember them, but to really savour the feelings they gave me. So here they are, in the order they touched my heart:

1. A Caramel Shortbread and a Chocolate Brownie—Together! 🍫🍯

There’s something so decadent and joyful about being able to have both a caramel shortbread and a chocolate brownie in one sitting. During my trip out with my support worker today, I didn’t have to choose. I got to enjoy the rich chocolatey comfort of the brownie alongside the sweet, buttery bite of caramel shortbread. It felt like a little reward, a gentle treat from the world. Just sitting down and enjoying those two together made me feel quietly happy and cared for.

2. Segments from ‘Peppa Meets The Baby’ 👶✨

I kept thinking about the segments in the Peppa Pig cinema presentation Peppa Meets The Baby. There was one where Naomi Wilkinson gently talked about how Peppa—and by extension, any of us—can cope with a new baby sibling at home. It was thoughtful, reassuring, and kind. And then there were those lovely parts with five lucky preschoolers who got to share a big moment with Peppa, welcoming the new baby together. Those scenes felt so full of hope, and it made me think how sweet it is when children are included in something special and new. They reminded me that we all need space to grow and be part of something tender.

3. Rocky and Dusty from Four Feather Falls 🤠💫

And finally, today I’m grateful for Rocky and Dusty. Just thinking about them—those loyal, kind-hearted characters—made me feel like I had two old friends at my side. They’ve sort of become a second Timon and Pumbaa to me: always around in spirit, always there for a chuckle, some warmth, or just quiet company. When you feel like you're walking through your day with familiar friends in your heart, it makes everything feel more connected.

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These small things—sweet treats, soft memories, and silent friendships—made today feel just right. Not loud or flashy, just full of little blessings that stacked up into something whole. What are you thankful for today?

The Petal Garden Incident (Bill & Ben)

If you grew up in the UK during the early 2000s, chances are you caught an episode or two of Bill & Ben, the Cosgrove Hall-produced reboot of the 1950s classic. With its soft clay animation and endearingly gibberish-speaking flowerpot men, it was a staple of Children’s BBC—later CBeebies—for kids just beginning to form memories. But there’s one episode you’ve never seen. Not on TV, not online, and certainly not mentioned in official BBC archives. Internally at Cosgrove Hall, it had a name: The Petal Garden Incident.

According to ex-staff at Cosgrove Hall, the episode was the result of an internal experiment—one not meant for broadcast. The studio was experimenting with abstract, subconscious imagery and horror concepts for a new adult anthology series. Someone, allegedly a writer named "Stuart N.", jokingly pitched the idea of “Bill and Ben in purgatory,” playing off the idea that their garden world was too peaceful, too isolated.

The animators, under heavy production schedules and perhaps looking to blow off steam, decided to use the Bill & Ben models as a mockup for a psychological horror concept—never intended to be aired. But something went wrong. Very wrong. The footage was mistakenly catalogued as a rough cut for the actual show and included in early distribution reels for overseas broadcasters. The BBC caught it before airing, but test viewers in Norway and Japan were not so lucky.

The intro begins as usual. The tinkling music plays. The flowers sway. You hear the gentle narration: “Bill and Ben… the Flowerpot Men.” But in this version, something’s off.

The music is slower. Dragged out. Like it’s melting. The sky looks darker. There’s a sound—very faint at first—of a baby wailing. As the intro continues, the wailing grows louder. Sharper. Soon it’s not a baby at all, but a guttural, demonic moan. The flowers twist unnaturally toward the screen. The screen flashes with violent cuts—frames of something unrecognizable. Blood? Raw meat? A hospital room?

Then the colors invert. The entire screen floods with a deep, arterial red. The music cuts. All that’s left is the sound of panting. Not from Bill or Ben—but from something alive.

Without a title card, we cut to the garden—only it’s dim, suffocatingly grey. Bill and Ben are strapped to a crude wooden table, their clay arms tied with rough twine. Their mouths are sealed. No “flobbadob.”

Weed is standing over them. She doesn’t speak, but her leaves twitch in a rhythmic pattern—signalling, commanding. Pry the magpie flies in first, landing on Ben's chest. Then Boo, Whoops, Scamper, and finally Slowcoach arrive, surrounding the helpless flowerpot men.

They begin pulling. Slowly at first, then with increasing force. Bill’s left arm is yanked off, revealing not clay—but flesh. A squirming, bloodied human baby arm. The others work in sync, peeling away the clay skin until, lying on the table where Bill and Ben once were, are two writhing, shrieking real human babies. Their eyes blink open—and they look straight at the camera.

The scene cuts without warning to real-life footage. The ocean. Grey, stormy waves slamming against jagged rocks. Then, a cliffside. Handheld footage now. A baby, perhaps nine months old, crawls on all fours toward the edge of the cliff. There are no adult voices—just the sound of distant seagulls, and the wind.

Then the baby falls.

There is no music. Just a piercing scream—female, primal. The camera shakes violently, and the screen cuts to static.

We return to the garden one last time. The clay aesthetic is back—but it’s cruder. Bill and Ben, now baby-sized versions of themselves, sit huddled in the mud. They look up and smile weakly.

Then, from the cracks in the ground, come ants. Hundreds. Thousands. With sharp, exaggerated mandibles. They swarm the baby versions of Bill and Ben. There’s no screaming—just the quiet crunch of consumption. Clay limbs twitch, dissolve. The ants consume everything.

Fade to black.

The BBC never aired the episode. After a catastrophic test screening with an internal panel—including parents, psychologists, and executives—the footage was flagged and officially locked in the BBC’s content vault. Some even say it was physically destroyed.

But copies had already leaked. A Norwegian children's block aired it once by mistake before pulling the episode mid-broadcast. In Japan, it aired in full during an overnight block meant for preschoolers, prompting multiple complaints and a quiet apology from NHK. The episode became known in international broadcaster logs as “B&B-RedRend01”.

After the incident, Cosgrove Hall quietly dismantled the original Bill & Ben production team. When the BBC commissioned them again, it was to focus on simpler, gentler reboots. Their next task? A reboot of Andy Pandy—released in 2002 with muted pastels and slow, meditative pacing. There were no more experiments. No more “adult horror mockups.”

They never mentioned The Petal Garden Incident again.

But sometimes… when watching Bill & Ben reruns on old VHS tapes, the screen flickers red for just a single frame.

Sleepover Blues

Lady Penelope adjusted the folds of her silken robe as she looked down at me, curled up at the foot of the Chesterfield in her hotel suite. The lights of Demeter City glowed softly through the window, casting pastel blues and purples across the room. I was completely knackered, my hair tousled, my eyes half-shut, and my little limbs draped across the carpet like I’d melted.

“Darling, you look utterly worn out,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Did you sleep at all during your little adventure?”

I gave a sleepy sigh and murmured, “Sort of. But I had the best time with Slomo…”

And just like that, the memory of our whirlwind sleepover began to bubble up in my tired little brain…

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The night before, Slomo had invited me to stay at a hotel in Demeter City—an old retro-futuristic place with smooth curves, glowing floor panels, and a rooftop hot tub that overlooked the twinkling skyline. Slomo and I had stepped into the hot tub together just as the stars came out, the bubbles fizzing around us like we were inside a great big soda bottle.

I leaned against his cool metallic frame, giggling as he gently extended one of his robot arms to mimic a splash. He wasn’t built for water, but he had waterproofed himself just for tonight. We cuddled up close, sharing sleepy stories and warm snuggles, the kind only siblings can give.

Slomo had a way of whirring softly, like a lullaby, and when he tilted his head, I couldn’t help but laugh. “You're the comfiest robot in the whole galaxy,” I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder.

The next morning, all dewy with dreams and warm towels, we wandered down to a nearby coffee shop for something to perk us up. It was bustling, full of aliens and humans ordering double-caffeinated glopachinos and buttery croissant clones. Slomo blinked at the menu, then blinked at me.

“You smell like a hot tub,” he said.

“You smell like warm toast,” I replied.

Just as we settled down with our drinks, the music changed. A DJ in the corner slid on some visors and raised the volume—an all-night rager was revving up.

“Should we?” Slomo asked, flicking his LED eyebrows suggestively.

“I think we must,” I said, standing on my tiptoes to hold his metallic hand.

And off we went.

The rager was wild. A full-blown neon-lit alien dance party. Creatures from every quadrant danced like their limbs were made of jelly. I drank something fizzy and bright green that made my feet tingle. Slomo had four cans of Coke Zero wired into his frame and spun in circles so fast he became a disco ball.

We danced like nobody was watching—because by 4am, nobody was. They were all asleep. Passed out across beanbags, under tables, and in booths with spilled chips and blinking glowsticks. I blinked at Slomo, who blinked back.

“We should probably get back,” I mumbled, feeling the world wobble slightly.

We stumbled outside, tipsy and giggly, and found a hovercar parked just off the curb with the keys still humming.

“Slomo, that car’s winking at us.”

“I believe it wants to go home,” he said.

And so we stole it. Giggling the whole way, we somehow made it back to the hotel without crashing, getting caught, or even dropping our half-eaten bag of cheesy noodles. Slomo parked it in a flowerbed and saluted.

That night, back in the rooftop hot tub, we didn’t say much. Just floated in the warm fizz, sharing popcorn and more Coke Zero. We watched the stars, counted blinking satellites, and traded lazy tickles and gentle cuddles under the city sky.

“You’re like my space brother,” I whispered.

“And you are my sleepy human bean,” Slomo replied with a tiny beep.

Back in our hotel room, the bed was soft and downy, like sleeping inside a cloud with arms. Slomo nestled beside me, clicking his sleepy circuits into snooze mode. We snuggled close under the blanket, heads tucked together. He tickled my back gently with a robotic finger. I curled up tighter and whispered, “Don’t ever let the night end.”

He replied with a soft, robotic hum: “Then let’s stay in the dream a little longer.”

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But morning came anyway. I woke up feeling blue. Something tight and sad bubbled up in my chest. Maybe it was leaving, maybe it was too much fizzy drink, or maybe I just missed home.

Slomo noticed right away. He tucked me under his arm and whispered, “Hey, you’re safe. You’re with me. You’re loved.”

I nodded slowly. “Can we go tell Podley and the others? I just want them to know…”

So we made our way to the 88th Precinct. Podley raised an eyebrow when he saw us. Romek and Orrin perked up. I tried to tell them everything—about the dance, the stars, the cuddles, the silly things, the hovercar. But halfway through, I just… collapsed.

Swoosh. Out cold.

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Back in the present, Lady Penelope gently scooped me up into her arms. My face nuzzled against her satin shoulder as she carried me toward the suite bedroom.

Slomo wheeled into the room, where Parker was polishing his shoes. The old butler blinked in mild surprise.

“I say… he looks completely spent.”

Slomo nodded. “She partied harder than most kids I’ve met.”

“But she’s a good one,” Lady Penelope whispered. “She’s got heart.”

Slomo's eyes dimmed gently, like a lamp being turned low. “She always had the biggest one.”

And with that, she tucked me into bed—soft, warm, and finally still—while Slomo powered down beside me, guarding my dreams like the sibling I never knew I needed.

The End.

Why Was Andy Pandy Featured In The Best Of British?

Drumond Park's decision to include Andy Pandy as one of the subjects in The Best of British board game reflects a deep appreciation for the quiet, enduring power of nostalgia in British popular culture. As a game built around the quirks, memories, and milestones of life in Britain, The Best of British celebrates not just the big icons—like red phone boxes and fish and chips—but also the subtle, sentimental markers of a shared cultural experience. Andy Pandy, first broadcast in 1950 as part of the BBC's Watch With Mother programming, fits this brief perfectly. It was one of the first British television programmes specifically created for preschool children, and its gentle tone, simple stop-motion animation, and soft musical cues became part of the early childhood memories of a generation. For many British adults, even those who were born well after the show’s original airing, Andy Pandy represents an ideal of innocent, slow-paced childhood storytelling that has all but vanished from today’s fast-moving media landscape. By including Andy Pandy in their game, Drumond Park isn't just referencing a television show—they’re invoking an entire era of parenting, broadcasting, and growing up. It’s a nod to the power of collective memory and the way something as seemingly small as a string puppet with a picnic basket can symbolize comfort, security, and a distinctly British kind of gentleness. In a board game that aims to get families talking, laughing, and remembering together, Andy Pandy is a perfect prompt—bringing grandparents and parents into the fold with a knowing smile and a quiet, familiar tune.

According To Zoonie: Basic Needs

There was one time—one ridiculous, awful, nearly-criminal time—when Commander Zero nearly starved poor Zoonie to death. I still think about it sometimes, how a simple day out turned into a slow-burning disaster of hunger, cold, and sheer disregard for the needs of a creature who just wanted to be treated kindly.

It all started with Venus needing a break. She had errands to run, shopping to do, peace to find. So, she asked Commander Zero if he’d mind watching Zoonie for the day. Not forever. Just a few hours. “Of course,” he said, pretending he was capable. Spoiler: he wasn’t.

Their first stop was the newsagents. Not to get Zoonie a snack—no, Zero just wanted to pick up a bottle of water. Functional. Hydration, tick. But Zoonie, being Zoonie, started to get that twitchy, whiny sound in his throat. The one that means hunger. It came over him like a wave. The kind of wave you feel in your chest, deep and growling. But instead of addressing it straight away, Zero hesitated. He thought maybe Zoonie could wait a bit longer.

Eventually, they stopped at a supermarket. Croissants. A bag full of them. Golden and flaky, the smell wafting up from the paper bag, warm from the bakery aisle. For a moment, Zoonie thought the day might turn around. One for him, one for Zero, maybe two for each? But no. At the power plant, Zoonie was handed one croissant. One. The rest were for Commander Zero’s family. Packed carefully away in the boot like state secrets. Zoonie chewed slowly, savouring it like a last meal. It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.

Later, they returned to the supermarket to get something more substantial for lunch. That’s when Zoonie began to really lose it—whining, howling, the kind of pitiful noise that draws looks from passing pensioners. You’d think Zero might have reconsidered his priorities at this point. But no. Commander Zero looked at Zoonie like he was the problem. Like hunger was a character flaw.

Then came the petrol station. It’s always the petrol station, isn’t it? Cold aisles, overpriced sandwiches, that weird metallic smell. And hunger. Zoonie threw a full tantrum this time. A wailing, stomping, full-body collapse. Zero just kept refuelling the car like Zoonie wasn’t in distress. As if tantrums were simply background noise.

When they finally arrived at the park, Zoonie was shivering. The air had gone cold, his tummy was empty, and lunch? Not even close to satisfying. Instead of the warm cocktail sausages Venus would have brought, he was handed coleslaw. Cold, wet, crunchy coleslaw in a paper cup. He spat it out instantly. And who could blame him?

By the time they got home, things only got worse. Professor Mattic—usually a calm presence—asked Zoonie to help lift some tools. No food, no rest, and now labour. Zoonie whined, staggered, and ran. It was all too much.

He ended up in Venus’ room, crawling onto her bed and bursting into loud, wet sobs. It was the kind of cry that comes from deep inside, the kind that says I wasn’t cared for. Venus came in, saw him, and just knew. She didn’t scold or ask what happened. She hugged him tight and told him the truth: “They did the wrong thing, Zoonie. They should have listened to you.” And with that, she let him curl up beside her. Warmth. Kindness. Actual care.

Here’s the thing: when you go out with a support worker you least love—the kind who’s too rigid, too distracted, or just plain indifferent—you notice every small injustice. Every hunger pang. Every cold breeze. Every bad food choice. And it builds. It builds until your body can’t hide it anymore. You throw tantrums not because you’re “difficult,” but because your basic needs were ignored.

If someone had just looked at Zoonie and said, “What do you need right now?”—this whole day could’ve gone differently.

Let it be a lesson. Bring snacks. Listen. Be gentle. Don’t be a Zero.

Wolves, Robots & Postmen

Yesterday was a day of strange comfort, nostalgic joy, and unexpected hilarity. As I sat with the afternoon light slanting across the room, I found myself quietly grateful for three very different things—each one a moment of connection to something I love, or something so bizarre it brought a rare kind of joy. Here they are, in order:

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1. Little Grey Wolfy on Disney+
There’s something so soft and calming about Little Grey Wolfy. It appeared on Disney+ like a quiet whisper, and I welcomed it with open arms. The animation is gentle, almost like a dream you don't want to end, and the pacing is just slow enough to breathe in. Wolfy himself is a treasure—tender-hearted, curious, and full of a kind of childlike wonder that makes your insides feel warm. It felt like finding a tiny island of peace in a noisy world. I curled up with it and let it wash over me. I’m grateful it exists at all.

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2. Slomo in 'Deadline' (Space Precinct)
Slomo showed up in the Space Precinct episode Deadline—and it made my whole day. There’s something magical about seeing a familiar face from Demeter City, especially one as endearing and charmingly awkward as Slomo. He may be a little clunky, but there’s a strange peace in his presence. He’s like the embodiment of trying your best in a world that doesn’t always notice. Just hearing his little robotic beeps and watching him shuffle across the scene reminded me why I care about this odd, underappreciated series so much. He didn’t have to do anything big. Just being there was enough.

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3. Postman Pat Shoots Himself in the Norwegian Dub (Part 2)
And then, there was this—Postman Pat, in the Norwegian adult parody dub Lasse Og Trygve, literally shooting himself at the end of Part 2. It was so jarringly absurd, so wildly inappropriate for the character I grew up with, that I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. There’s catharsis in nonsense sometimes, especially when it turns a well-worn childhood symbol on its head in the most unexpected way possible. It was like watching a glitch in the matrix of nostalgia. Horrifying, but also brilliant in its sheer shock value. Definitely not for kids—but oddly, something to be grateful for. It reminded me how humor can sneak in through the weirdest cracks.

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Gratitude doesn’t always come wrapped in bows or sweetness. Sometimes it comes in soft wolves, loyal robots, and darkly comedic takes on childhood icons. But it comes, and yesterday it did—threefold.

What were you grateful for yesterday?

Zoonie's Tattoo: A Story

Zoonie the Lazoon has never been one for subtlety. Whether he’s bouncing around the Fireball XL5 crew with his chirpy “Welcome home, my heroes!” or zooming in at precisely the wrong time to throw everyone off balance, the little creature has a way of making himself known. But nothing—and I mean nothing—has quite rocked the Space City gossip orbit like the recent news that Zoonie has gotten a tattoo.

Yes, you read that right. A tattoo.

And not just any tattoo, but the name of someone he met a mere three days ago. The ink, reportedly etched in radiant Lazoonian script (a language only he and possibly Venus claim to understand), glows slightly in ultraviolet light, like some lovesick firefly trapped under his fuzzy skin.

Now, of course, this sparks a thousand questions, the first being: Who is this person? Sources close to Steve Zodiac claim Zoonie fell head over tiny heels for a charming flower seller on New Mars—an enigmatic figure with lilac fur, six fingers, and a voice like melted strawberry jam. She apparently gave Zoonie a cosmic daisy and called him “sparkle-paws” before vanishing into the violet mist. And that was enough. That was all it took. Three days later, boom—Zoonie walks into the Space City rec room with a freshly inked name glowing across his side, chirruping wildly and twirling in giddy loops.

Steve, predictably, spat out his nutrient coffee. Venus blinked twice and muttered something about hormones. Matt Mattics just said, “Well, I’ll be…”

And while Professor Matic is busy wondering if Lazoonian skin can even handle human-style ink, the rest of us are left wondering what drove Zoonie to such a bold, baffling move. Is this a genuine act of intergalactic love? A temporary obsession that’ll fade as fast as a Martian mirage? Or is it simply Zoonie being Zoonie—barreling into the world with all the impulse control of a toddler on a sugar high?

It’s not like we haven’t seen impulsive decisions in space before. There was that time Venus tried to redecorate the Fireball’s cockpit with floral curtains, or when Steve once shaved off his eyebrows during a bet with Commander Zero. But this? This is different. This is permanent. Inked. Etched. Immortalised on skin until Zoonie sheds his fur in a seasonal moult.

There’s something almost poetic about it, though. In a universe of constant motion—planets spinning, ships zooming, orders barked and dangers lurking—Zoonie paused long enough to feel. He met someone, he connected, and he did what no one else on XL5 dared to do: he committed. Even if it was absurd. Even if it was naive. He committed to that moment. To that person. To that daisy-scented flash of magic under the stars.

And honestly, isn’t that kind of beautiful?

Sure, everyone’s laughing now. Jock joked about covering it up with a tattoo of a nebula. Steve's been seen googling "Tattoo removal for Lazoons" when he thinks no one’s watching. But give it time. Maybe that flower seller meant more than any of us will ever understand. Or maybe, in a week, Zoonie will be chirping “I made a mistake!” and begging for a trip back to New Mars to talk things over.

But for now, Zoonie struts through Space City like the embodiment of pure, unfiltered devotion. A tiny fuzzball with a glowing name on his side and not a single regret in his heart.

And you know what?

Good for him.