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I was under much pressure this cat week, dear readers. A food critic from a culinary magazine had seen my picture box programme and was intrigued to meet me and taste some of my gastronomic delights. I was told by the magazine editor to offer her some french delicacies and to make sure I used local, seasonal produce. I was at a loss to know what to do, dear readers and the only seasonal product Gracie and I could think of were frogs legs. There are many of these strange little folk in my jardiniere at this time of year but I haven’t ever contemplated eating them. I asked Gracie if I’d get into trouble for murdering on my own doorstep but she informed me this only counts for fur or feather clad creatures. I was backed into a corner and there was no getting out of it.

I’m not short of frogs, dear readers, the rain brings them in from next doors’ pond. I just find them a bit, well… just a bit creepy and I didn’t quite know how to go about…well how to go about acquiring the legs. Probably not one of my best ideas but I went out into the garden and spoke to the frogs. They begged me not to make the dish, the main reason I’m surprised to tell you is that they are fed-up of being compared to chicken. They wish to abolish the dishes made from their limbs so they can become a mysterious and unknown delicacy as they once were hundreds of years ago. They wanted to be a speculated wonder and their heart felt speech touched me right down to my baked beans, so it did. What was I to do? I glanced at Marigold’s Cul-de-Sac and then saw Gracie watching me, her nose pressed up against one of my cottage windows. I was beginning to feel desperate, dear readers.

I took a turn around the garden so I could search my mental recipe store but all I could see were chicken drumsticks. Then it hit me, dear readers. I’d made crispet savoury pigeoneaux balls the previous cat week and I had stored some in my freezer. All I had to do was put them in the oven; minced meat is minced meat, dear readers, how would she ever know?

On top of all this the GPAA had organised my second, and thankfully final day out with Mr. Pig. Unfortunately it was to be on the very same day as the arrival of the food critic. I was stressed and panicked to the point that my ginger fur began to frizzee and I consumed twelve packets of Frazzles during one episode of The Little House on the Prairie. I watch it when I’m anxious, dear readers, it calms my nerves, so it does…

Anyway, for the time being I had to concentrate on Mr. Pig. I accepted my fate and agreed to spend the day at a theme park with Mr. Pig. This shows what a good friend to him I am because I should have been at home preparing my culinary delights. I knew if I got a good review from the well known food critic there was a possibility I could set up a wee restaurant in my cottage like that girl on BBC, Ms. Rachel Khoo. I was determined to set up a Bijou Bistro in my sitting room so people could come and have an Oracle reading and a nice TV dinner to follow. My baked beans work better under pressure and all I needed to do was make sure I was ultra organised but more of that later.

The big day arrived and Mr. Pig and I hopped on the bus which took us to the theme park. He was in the mood for one of his philosophical conversations. I didn’t mind, I’d rather that than his usual nonsense of ‘Can I eat my packed lunch now?’ and ‘I need a wee wee’. We eventually finished our conversation about the black hole, Star Trek and do birds learn their tunes from the radio, just as we arrived at our destination. The window was fogged from all our talking so I ‘used’ Mr. Pig to wipe the glass and peered out to see my fate. I’m not really one for theme parks, so I’m not but the little wee fella was so excited and it warmed me to see him so overwhelmed. Unfortunately his excitement was dashed when he failed the height restriction rules and was only allowed to go on the Teacup Waltzers. He cried, dear readers and I hate it when he cries. So, I decided, being a good friend I’d do him a little favour, so I would. I popped him in his new Sindy lunch box (oh the trouble I had getting that for him), told him to keep very quiet and snooked him on the roller coaster. Once we started moving and no one was watching I opened his packed lunch box so he could enjoy the ride. I can see why they have height restriction rules now, so I can…

Anyway, the day was cut short but I wasn’t bothered, I had lots of gastronomic preparations to attend to. I arrived home with more time than I’d expected to prepare my frog’s legs delicacy. Crispet ‘frogs legs’ savoury balls were put in the stove and I served them with home made, twice cooked curly fries from my freezer and a jardiniere salad and it all went down a treat. The fancy food critic had no idea and told me they were the best frogs legs nibblets she’d ever tasted. We had a spectacular evening filled with intellectual conversation, something which is sparce in my current surroundings. I am expecting a tremendous review next cat week and then my genius culinare baked beans can get to work with my Michelin Man starred restaurant.

I must make haste, dear readers I have lots of food to order from Iceland for my restaurant and I need to instruct my mignons regarding the lay out of my Bijou Bistro.

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. The GPAA were very impressed with the souveneir photograph which was snapped just as Mr. Pig and I reached the tip of the very highest part of the roller coaster and they have given me the all clear. I now have a certificate stating I am a very good and genuine friend of Mr. Pig. Unfortunately, as we descended the highest point Mr. Pig was flung from his Sindy lunch box and landed on the wig of some old Dot further along the roller coaster. She screamed and swiped him off and from there he quite literally ‘bounced’ from one ride to the next. I couldn’t quite see exactly where he went because I was stuck on the ride he’d wanted to go on. Anyway, he can’t grumble, it was his idea to go there…unfortunately he’s being treated in a psychiatric ward in hospital at the moment. He now has a phobia of heights, water, air, people, children, wigs, candy floss, chewing gum and pirate ships. He’s a complex little wee fella, so he is…

I’m afraid the fat pigeonneaux who was sat on the roof of Ginger Nut Villa (my outhouse) has carked it. He fell off said roof, landing, quite literally, at my baked beans. I had awoken early that morning so I could take a turn around my garden and contemplate my estate. I did not lay a single baked bean on him and would like to make it quite clear that he died of natural causes. I gave him a brief post mortem, so I did…

Anyway, before anyone surfaced in my cottage I managed to whisk up a pate, a mousse, some snackette de morderes, a roast dinner and a curry out of the poor wee fellas carcus. Oh and a gravy. No one was going to stop me having a meat dinner fresh from my garden and I wasn’t prepared to risk losing the opportunity. I even had time to mount his feet onto a very fetching wall plaque as a reminder of my trophy. I did wonder whilst I was mounting his serres if my Oracle powers had caused him to fall off his perch because I had spent quite a few cat hours staring at him from my cottage window.

Eventually She stomped downstairs in her pyjamas, with her knotted bed hair, crumpled pillow face and began screeching at the sight of my new wall mount and the array of pigeonneaux nibblets I’d laid out on my kitchen table. I held up a plate of deep fried crispet pigeon balls that I’d made out of his plump legs but I couldn’t tempt her out of her amateur dramatiques. I’d used every little bit of him, dear readers, nothing went to waste so I couldn’t understand what the problem was. I told She to calm down and made her a cup of tea, explaining as I did so how I’d found him dead that morning, and, being a bit whiffy I decided to ‘tidy’ him up. Anyway, all the other fluffs enjoyed what I’d produced and I was forgiven for last weeks attempted murder debacle.

The GPAA have told me they’re not entirely convinced of my remorseness or friendship with Mr. Pig and I’m blaming the BBC. If they hadn’t dropped us from the picture box I would have been able to prove our genuine relationship, so I would.  Anyway, they’re not putting me on trial or sending me to cat prison which is a relief. Instead, they’ve issued me with some GPAA Community Cat Hours, which means I have to take him out on a couple of trips and bring back photos as proof. I managed to get through the first weeks outing but I’m not relishing next week, so I’m not. One whole day with Mr. Pig was enough but I have one more day to go to make up the hours.

Anyway, the GPAA ordered me to take him to the Zoo for the day. It started off badly when he insisted whilst we were on the bus that I carry his Barbie lunch box. Anyone who knows me, dear readers will be aware that Sindy Doll, now retired, lives with me in my cottage and never have I ever supported Barbie during her career out of loyalty for my friend. He manipulatively told me he’d tell the GPAA if I didn’t, so I agreed. Then he announced on the bus journey to the Zoo that he wanted a wee wee. At this point, dear readers I could have quite happily ‘slammed’ him in his lunch box and thrown him out of the window but I suppressed the urge by eating the Cadbury’s Curly Wurly he had stashed in it. I asked the bus driver to stop and found him somewhere away from view where he could have a wee wee.

All in all I had a tumultuous day filled with guinea pig visions but I think the whole experience has been cathartic for me, so it has. After all I suppressed the urge to drop him down the funnel of the snake tank (they’re partial to rodents and I had an urge to see a live feasting). Nor did I attempt to hold him up in the air during the Falcon display to see if I could tempt the magnificent creature with some prey. I also quashed the urge to drop kick him into the Leopard enclosure to see if they’d ‘tolerate’ his nonsense. Or punt him into the field full of Ostriches to see if he could run faster than them.

Anyway, no one told me I had to travel on the bus home with him so it wasn’t my fault he was left at the Zoo. I told him if we got separated he was to meet me in the gift shop at 5p.m. And he didn’t show and I wasn’t missing the bus for anyone; Coach Trip, my favourite picture box programme starts at 5.30 p.m. Later that evening Mrs. Eileen Pig knocked on my door asking me the whereabouts of Mr. Pig. I told her the last time I’d seen him he was in the guinea pig enclosure having a jolly old time and he’d seemed very much at home. Anyway, I’ve got plenty of photos for the GPAA and if they ask what happened I’ll say he insisted on staying behind.

I must depart, dear readers, the GPAA will be here soon and I must decorate the photo album I made of our absolutely splendid day out. I am adorning the cover with glitter and stars to show how genuine our friendship is. I want to make sure I am completely exterminated from anything they might accuse me of…

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Unfortunately Mr. Pig claims he didn’t know I’d left the Zoo and wandered around looking for me. He ended up in a very tricky situation with a group of Galagos’s. They might look cute, dear readers but they’re actually very spiteful. They surrounded him near the picnic area and told him if he didn’t hand over his Cornetto and pocket money they’d ‘rough’ him up. He was eventually found robbed of said items upside down in one of the picnic bins. They took his Barbie lunch box too, so they did…

Twice I have been in trouble this cat week, dear readers. Busy body villagers and do goody Tofu eating woolies interferring in my affairs. I shouldn’t have to explain my actions to anyone, I am a celebratory, twinkly stardom filled ginger cat, so I am. Not only that but there have been complaints at the BBC about my picture box programme. We’re already being broadcast on BBC Obscure at 2 a.m. and apparently if we don’t ‘demonstrate’ a proper recipe they’re going to drop us. I knew we should have approached ITV –  at least then we would have had commercial breaks, so filming would have amounted to only twenty cat minutes and I wouldn’t be so starved and exhausted by the end of each shoot. Anyway, Gracie has told me, tantrum or no tantrum, I am not allowed to change the recipes and I was set to make Cassoulet this cat week. Had I been left to my own devizes, the whole experience would have been straight forward and easy. But no, I was given a recipe by some woman called Mrs. Julia Child and told to follow it exactly. This is when it all went wrong and I am now hated in the village. I am blaming the BBC for this and they will be receiving one of my terse letters, so they will.

This is how it began. For Cassoulet you need a duck and some sausages. It would be preferable, for ease, to find a duck who has some sausages about his personage but don’t worry if you can’t. Because the village bus wasn’t running that day and I have been told I have to forage for my own ingredients, I wandered down to the village pond to look for a likely volunteer. I was ignored as they swam around in delerious circles and eventually I went and fetched Mr. Pig and a large pole. I hung said guinea pig from said pole and ‘wafted’ him across the pond so that he could grab said duck. After several ‘dunkings’ he managed to grab a rather plump canard. I shouldn’t have to fetch my own ingredients, dear readers, I am the new face of gastronomy, so I am.

The canard was happy to appear on my television show and just to make it clear, he signed my contract to say so. We stopped at the shop on the way back to my cottage because he didn’t have any sausages upon his personage. I bought Wall’s but you can use a cheap variety if you wish.

My journey home and the two cat hours thereafter were an audible nightmare, it was worse than listening to Mr. Pig playing his recorder. Yippety yippy yap! Rupert, that’s the duck’s name would not shut up but eventually we got down to the recipe and I asked him if he’d like a herbal sleeping tablet. He agreed saying the excitement had worn him out and he needed a nap. It’s better this way, dear readers, I couldn’t possibly do the deed in cold blood with my baked beans clamped over his beak to shut him up. I gave him two tablets to be sure and he fell into a deep slumber right on my kitchen worktop. Then She walked in and began screeching at me, and, as I’ve told her before, it’s not very becoming, so it’s not. Apparently, I’d been ‘seen’ by a few of the neighbours ‘fishing’ said duck from the village pond and they were threatening to report me. I told She that it was for my very important picture box programme and that I’d been kind enough to drug him first, so what was the problem? She sat down on one of my kitchen stools and cried in despair. So I put the meat cleaver down and patted She’s hand, telling her it was all part of life’s great patchwork cat quilt. Then, before I could say spam fritter she snatched a snoring Rupert from the table and flounced from my cottage. My recipe and picture box programme have been ruined. We had to film a here’s one I made earlier type programme and I used a tin of beans and sausages in tomato sauce. A few spam fritters were artistically sliced and arranged on the plate to look like pink duck breast and it tasted far better than French Cassoulet. Oh, what the people of French could learn from me! Unfortunately, the BBC said they’d had so many complaints that they had no choice but to drop us. I’m blaming Mr. Pig for this debacle, dear readers, if he hadn’t faffed about collecting said duck there wouldn’t have been a problem, so there wouldn’t.

Shunned by my house mates for allegedly trying to attempt murder again on my own doorstep, I went outside to play with Mr. Pig and a few cat minutes later I was in trouble again, dear readers. I had made Mr. Pig a make shift trampoline from a tennis racket and with a little wee help from me he was able to ‘bounce’ quite happily up and down on said racket. Accidentally, he ended up in the cur’s garden next door. A few cat moments later and he came flying straight back. I tried it again out of curiosity and back he bounced. I looked through the hole in the fence and there was next door’s cur with a make shift guinea pig trampoline tennis racket like mine. He introduced himself as Tommy and asked me if I’d partake in a game of ‘tennis’ with him, using the fence as a net. I’d warmed to him, dear readers and I happily agreed. We played four sets before our game was ruined, quelle surprise, by a willow weaving do goody neighbour who was busy bodying from her upstairs window. So, I am wallowing in my solitary world yet again and Tommy the cur is in the cur house, quite literally. I don’t know what the problem is? Mr. Pig agreed to play and after two sets of the game he’d ‘fallen’ into a deep ‘sleep’, so he had…

Must fly, Marigold head and his chickens are laying eggs again and I have some oeuf based recipes to make with Gracie. She has forgiven me and agreed to spend the afternoon baking with me on a strictly ‘no murdering’ basis. It’s a shame because I’ve had my eye on a fat pigeon who has positioned himsef on top of Ginger Nut Villa, my outhouse roof. He’s very depressed, so he is and has intimated it’s his ‘time’, so he has. I’ve told him as much as I’d love to make Pigeonneaux Nibblets out of him and a sandwich paste from his inards I must decline on this occasion…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Worried I had upset Mr. Pig during the ‘tennis’ game (I admit some of my over paw shots were a wee bit vigorous)  I watched some episodes of the Waltons on the picture box with him, it’s his favourite, so it is. Unfortunately the episode where Jim Bob’s guinea pig carks it came on. We knew it was going to be a sad episode and I told him not to watch but he insisted he liked a thriller. He became very distressed when Jim Bob’s guinea pig fell off a chest of drawers and died and I told Mr. Pig he should feel very lucky to have a friend like me because I would never, ever put him in a dangerous situation like that, so I wouldn’t. The realisation of what a good friend I am appeared on his visage, dear readers and he patted my paw. He then agreed to ‘partake’ in a game of Badminton with Tommy the cur and after he signed my ‘no claws’ contract we skipped off outside for a ‘game’, so we did…

After a terribly emotional and draining cat week which I will tell you about une chat momento, I decided to have my psychotic sieve removed. It seemed to be losing it’s power and I had a wee zap from it in my garden after a particularly thundery, rainy day. Not only that but I saw a vision which frightened me, dear readers. I sweated over it for two cat nights and the amount of Cadbury’s Wispa bars I had to consume to calm my nerves have caused me to find it difficult to ‘push’ myself through the cat door, but enough said about that.

Two cat days after I’d seen the terrible vision it materialized in front of Ethel and I and we were stunned, dear readers. Ethel had asked me to take a turn around my garden because she wanted to discuss the idea of setting up a book group in my cottage. Then she stopped walking, grabbed my arm and screamed. I looked to wear she was pointing and there lay in my garden, poking out behind Ginger Nut Villa, the legs of Miss. Havisham. Had she been wearing red shoes it would have been reminiscent of my favourite picture box film, The Wizard of Oz. We moved closer so we could see if she was still alive but her black and white body lay stiff and carked. Ethel grabbed me and I grabbed her, devasteration engulfing us both. Solemnly we wandered into my cottage, informed Gracie and asked her to gather everyone indoors so I could make the very sad announcement. Darkness fell over my cottage, dear readers as we discussed Miss. Havisham’s funeral arrangements which were to be held later that cat week.

Out of respect, all filming was cancelled and Mr. Pig, when ‘pressed’ agreed not to play his recorder until after the funeral. He’s been practicing for the guinea pig music group he’s recently joined, they’re holding a concert in the village hall in a few cat weeks and have asked him to play a solo performance. I was glad of the rest from the audible abuse, dear readers.

The day of doom arrived and we all made our way to the local church. The service was a long one due to Miss. Havisham being so old and having so many friends and family wanting to share stories about her life. Mr. Pig became bored quite quickly and kept impromptly singing ‘When This Lousy War is Over’, one of the hymns on our memorial programme. Had we not been in a church and at Miss. Havisham’s funeral he would have found himself ‘sticky taped’ to a coffin lid. Instead, I aimed him discreetly in the direction of the church organ and he landed quite spectacularly on top of one of the pipes. His squeals as he flew through the air were barely noticed as the organ player struck up a hymn just at the right time. Then, it was my turn to say a few words about our cobwebbed queen. I’m afraid I couldn’t hold back the cat tears and Gracie had to finish my reading for me.

After the burial we all went back to my cottage for drinks and nibbles. A now apparently deaf Mr. Pig announced he couldn’t serve my snackettes de morderes on sticks because he had a migraine. I was astounded at his selfishness, dear readers. Just as I was quashing the urge to perform a home made ‘syringing’ on his lug holes using my curly drinking straw and the aid of my beloved Soda Stream pump, I heard a gasp from several of the guests. Then a hush fell across the crowds and someone switched off my Human League LP. I placed Mr. Pig carefully back onto his stool and was about to explain how I wasn’t going to hurt him when I realised it wasn’t me they were gasping at. There in the doorway of my kitchen stood a very bleary eyed Miss. Havisham and I wasn’t having a psychotic episode, dear readers. Everyone could see her. She commented on the party and enquired why she hadn’t been invited. We asked her what was going on and told her she was supposed to be dead and that we’d just buried her and this was her enterrement soiree. Confused, she said she couldn’t remember any of that and had been asleep, for how long she didn’t know, after opening and consuming a 1958 bottle of port.

Livid doesn’t even cover it, dear readers. I told her she better make the most of her funereal party because we weren’t going to pay for another one when she did finally cark it. I snatched my snackettes de morderes on sticks I’d lovingly and depressingly prepared with my fair baked beans from her family and friends and asked them to leave. I wasn’t having them fill up on free scoff at my expense while the old crone was still alive. Not once has she apologised, dear readers. She says it’s not her fault we mistook her for the old cat hag who lived down the road. I’m blaming Ethel a wee bit because she was the one who said it was Miss. Havisham. I hadn’t dared look at the body properly and I should never have relied on her inspection; she’s wearing comedy bifoculars again, dear readers.

Anyway, I must depart and relax my baked beans. I need planty of rest and cat sleep after my tumultuous episode because I have some customers arriving for psychotic readings. I know I’m not tuned in anymore but they don’t know that. I use the Tarot cards as a prop and tell them what they want to hear…most of the time anyway… I am seen as The Oracle, dear readers and I’m not prepared to give that title up, so I’m not…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Mr. Pig has become an integral part of my psychotic performances. He had been complaining of boredom since Miss. Havisham’s fake funeral so I decided to buy him a ‘toy’. It’s a large plastic ball you would normally put a gerbil in but I didn’t have one of those for him to play with so he had to become a ‘part’ of the toy. He likes running around in it, so he does and it’s good exercise for him. But I made a marvellous discovery, dear readers! Everytime I pick the globe up and give it a shake he utters what seems to be some very wise words. I’m using him for my Tarot readings – at the end of each session my customer asks him a question and gives him a ‘shake’ in his globe and he gives them an answer, pure genius! He is a fortune telling ball, so he is! Word of warning though, please don’t put your guinea pig fortune telling globe in the water…they don’t float…it was his idea, so it was…

My first Tarot reading, as you know, was with Carpet Bag Baggy Puss. In my opinion it was very successful and proved to me I definitely have a gift and need to use it. Carpet Bag was furious during the reading and lost her temper which proved to me I’d hit a nerve. The truth hurts, dear readers. Her fit of colere only proved to me that my psychotic sieve antenna was working. It all began well when I informed her she would be going on a holiday, somewhere warm and I could also see her celebrating something special in the next cat year. I foresaw a wedding, a divorce, a funeral and maybe some money coming her way. When I got to the part about her needing to lose some weight or have a large nip and tuck around her ventre area she began to get irate. Anyway, I was so in tune that I had a vision of her hitting me and, not wanting to suffer another Cursed Claw I grabbed Mr. Pig who was in the middle of a game of seventy two Tarot card pick up, (he was irritating me with his Paul Daniel’s impressions, I’d had to distract him with something) and used him to protect my delicate ginger visage. He took the full force of the Cursed Claw and it wasn’t pretty, dear readers. Carpet Bag gasped, realising what she had done and we both knew it was serious. ‘Don’t touch it!’ I screamed as she reached out to remove the large claw protruding from his chest – I’d watched enough episodes of Young Doctors to know that removing the offending article would result in his peine de mort.

I carefully laid him on the table, collected and shuffled the Tarot deck and asked him to pick a card. I wanted to see the outcome of his fate to see if it was worth phoning an ambulance or not. The poor wee fella was clearly unable to speak and responded with some sign language I didn’t understand so, I decided to fetch She to ask her advice. She immediately rushed him to the vets. I was slightly disappointed she wouldn’t allow me to call an ambulance, I’ve always wanted to see the film set of Casualty. She offered for me to travel in the car with him to the vets but I unselfishly said I’d stay at home to boost moral and prepare Mr. Pig a nice dinner for when he got back. Part of my decision was due to a discuter with said vet over an incident concerning my unmentionables and  also, I didn’t want him messing with my psychotic sieve.

I prepared my little wee amie a supper of steak and mushroom pie, with creamy mashed potatoes and lashings of meaty gravy but then I remembered he doesn’t like mushrooms and I couldn’t remember if he was a vegetabletarian or not, so I ate it myself. I was worried the mushroom waft from the pie would make him feel sick. Anyway, the cat time passed and I was becoming increasingly worried so, to calm my nerves I ate some spam fritters followed by some cheese pasties and prawn volley vaults. As I dozed in front of the picture box I heard She come through my cottage door. Mr. Pig was saved, dear readers! Cursed Claw was removed and he was bandaged across his chest. Carpet Bag was banished outside for the night, a punishment enforced by She for attacking my best friend. I spent a good few cat hours that evening watching her from my sitting room window. She tried to punch me through the glass several times, so I showed her the middle baked bean of my left paw. It’s the first time I’ve done this without suffering a Cursed Claw, so it is…it amused me greatly…

We were all concerned about Mr. Pig being able to take part in filming the following day but he insisted he was okay to do it. I think it was mainly due to the fact he wanted get away from Mrs. Eileen Pig because she hadn’t been particularly sympathetic to his injury and wasn’t looking after him very well. She’s fed-up with his accident prone tendencies and hypochondria. I know how she feels, I’ve had to put up with it much longer than she has.

Anyway, I Sellotaped Mr. Pig to my kitchen notice board so we could prop him up on a stool for filming, he was finding it difficult to stand up. He couldn’t prepare anything but as long as he’s on camera that’s all that matters. So, all in all we managed to film another stress free episode. This cat week I made croissants. The recipe says they can take up to fifteen cat hours to make but I’ve found these Michelin Man starred chefs to have mensonged about this little fact. No one, and I mean no one, dear readers makes their own pastry. You can buy it from the shop. For this recipe I use short crust pastry but you can use puffy if you wish. Unwrap said pastry and using a compass, a pastry wheel and an incapacitated guinea pig, cut circles from the flattened dough. I am very creative with my croissants and spread them with Nutella or herring sandwich paste but if this is a step too far, dear readers then just leave them plain. Roll them up, bend the ends into a croissant shape and bake in the stove for twenty cat minutes. It’s as simple as that, so it is.

I have to dash, dear readers because I have to do a psychotic sieve reading for Hugo the mole, who, along with everyone else, is still camped in my jardiniere rent free. I am charging for my expertise, so I am. Everyone is referring to me as The Oracle, dear readers! I have decided to abandon the Tarot cards because I am so tuned in, I don’t need them, so I don’t. My psychotic sieve is quite uncomfortable but I am prepared to suffer for my talents.

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. Because Mr. Pig has to rest and is having trouble standing up or laying down because it’s too painful, I did what any best friend would do and made use of his misfortune. I have ‘glued’ him to a sandwich board advertising my new found talent and he is ‘resting’ on the road outside my cottage. He says the rain is soaking his bandage and getting in his wound. This can only be a good thing, dear readers, he’s not the cleanest of rongeurs, so he’s not…