As you read this, I want you all to know that I understand the seriousness of being accused of attempted arson on a guinea pig but let me explain exactly what happened. I know what a guinea pig strapped to a washing line pole must have looked like and I can understand the distress it must have caused the old busybody Doris who was watching from her nosy beak window. Especially when I had a box of matches in my baked beans. Now, let me explain. I was actually helping to save Mr. Pig’s life and also his reputation. The Bonnie Langford leotard was beginning to mould into his skin, squashing his unmentionables and causing him much irritation under his armpits. Not only that, but he was beginning to wiff quite a bit and I needed him sparkly clean and presentable to help me with my Bijou Bistro that cat week.
Anyway, I digest. He begged me, dear readers and I mean begged, for me to remove the garment from his personage. I tried tugging it off but it became stuck over his head and he quite literally screamed my cottage down (he has claustrophobia issues from a time when She accidentally shut him in the washing machine) so, I tried cutting it off with some scissors but it was too closely knitted into his skin and the risk of nipping him was too high. He began to cry, dear readers and you know I don’t like it when he cries. I calmed him down with half of one of my Cadbury’s Curly Wurly’s (I don’t like him having a whole one, it causes him to ramble and have ideas of grandeur) and told him there was one very easy way of getting rid of said garment and due to the levels of viscose and nylon in the makeshift leotard it would be over quite quickly. The simple ‘waft’ of a tiny, tiny match would disperse all his worries away. It would also take away his wiff problem but I didn’t tell him that bit. I didn’t want to alarm the little wee fella, he was very nervous about the whole procedure. I explained to him I would need to tie him to something in case he scarpered at the sight of the flame and caused himself further damage. He signed my contract and agreed that he couldn’t continue with the Bonnie Langford leotard as he didn’t even have the benefit of being able to dance or strut in it. So, I tied the little wee fella to the washing line pole and lit, very quietly and carefully, a tiny, tiny match. Poof! And said garment had gone in a flash with only very minor crinkling to Mr. Pig’s fur and a slight ‘smoking’ odour. He wasn’t hurt or injured in any way whatsoever and even bought me a box of Fab! ice lollies as a thank you for setting him free and ultimately saving his life. I just wanted to make that clear because the old Doris who lives nearby has reported me for cruelty and I am being questioned yet again.
Unfortunately, after the Bonnie Langford leotard debacle Mrs. Eileen Pig announced she wanted a divorce. The stupidity of the pink outfit had been the twig that broke the lamas back and since he’d left the psychiatric unit where he went to cure his phobias and fragile mind, she said he’d not been the same. I’d noticed it as well, dear readers and feared that the Scrambled Head doctors had left him on the swings, so to speak – the coconut matting and helter skelter far in the distance. For example, I’d found him in the garden the other day talking to the contents of a bag of Opal Fruits. He’d made faces in all of them with a cocktail stick and lined them up on my patio. When I asked him what he was doing he said he was enjoying a spot of gardening. Anyway, Mrs. Eileen Pig had caught him painting the caravan windows pink, which apparently was to match his leotard. I couldn’t see what the fuss was about and actually thought it improved the tin can on wheels, except he was also painting the glass. But, she delivered a still slightly smoking Mr. Pig to my door and told me it was over and I would have to take responsibility of him. He seemed to come to all of a sudden and ran into my cottage. When I’d finished trying to reason with Mrs. Eileen Pig that actually he was a good father to the ragonteurs, and that yes he could be annoying but he was good at Macrame, Guess Who and played the recorder quite well, I went in doors to find Mr. Pig relaxing in front of my picture box with a glass of my restaurant wine.
After I’d quashed the urge to make him an interesting feature in my Lava lamp, I asked him what was going on. The upshot is, dear readers, his insanity, apparently was all an act. He wanted to push Mrs. Eileen Pig to the edge so she would want to leave. He hates her and the evil sporn and doesn’t even think they’re his. He begged to be allowed to stay in my cottage and with his paw firmly on mine, told me that if I was a good friend I would support him in his hour of need. To be honest, I wasn’t that bothered at the time about him staying because I had other plans for him which I will tell you about uno momento.
The first cat week of opening my Bijou Bistro restaurant has been quite stressful, dear readers. I can not believe the rudeness of people and the incompetence of guinea pigs. Bijou Bistro means I have limited space for guests and if they want to sample my unique culinary delights they will have to get used to it. A picture box dinner on a tray and a reading from the Oracle should be viewed as an honour, so it should. Mr. Pig hasn’t helped, he can’t seem to grasp his job description. For example, you do not pick food from a guests plate whilst serving it to them and then comment on the tastiness of said food to said guest whilst spraying them with tiny food morsels from your stupid guinea pig gob. Nor do you taste the wine on the guests behalf using their glasses. He has no idea, dear readers. When one of my guests asked him if her soup was fresh, he said yes it had come straight from the can and told her I’d heated it up in the microwave. I’ve explained the art of lying to him but he just can’t grasp the concept.
He stuffed himself silly one night in my kitchen just before we were about to open and when it came to serving the guests their Dairylea cheese souffle he trumped in front of them. Not amused, they left without paying. Flashes of giving him a makeshift sauna in my rice steamer blurred my vision. This was quickly followed by another of him strapped to my hostess trolley, hurtling down a hill. But I suppressed both, dear readers because he is my friend, so he is.
Anyway, I have an exciting new opportunity ahead of me, dear readers! My literally an agent has asked me to go on a culinary world wide roadshow, so I must depart from you all for the summer. I nearly declined the offer because Environmental Health issued me with a warning about the arrangement of my fridge and larder and I thought I would have to stay behind to sort out my beloved little restaurant. But, panicked that I might miss out on my opportunity, Carpet Bag Baggy Puss and Ethel stepped in and told me they would run it for me. So, I am leaving my Bijou Bistro in their capable baked beans and they have promised to transform it into a success. Edith and Miss. Havisham are in charge of entertainment evenings and my little heart has been warmed by their generosity and eagerness for me to go away on a long and exciting holiday. Gracie is to join me on my vacation, as is Mr. Pig…
Thank you, my dear and avid readers for your constant love and support. Enjoy the summer and I will see you soon!
Your best fluff
Wilfred.
Piss. S. I had to ‘evict’ Mr. Pig from my cottage, a temporary arrangement until we leave for our travels. I couldn’t cope with him fiddling with my picture box remote control and helping himself to my snackette cupboard. His attempts at my Radio Times crossword, a magazine I love and prescribe to each week were causing my ginger fur to frizee and he had to go. It all came to a head when an argument ensued over whether he should take his Furby and Connect 4 on his travels with him. After I’d suppressed the urge to ‘weave’ him through said board game I begged my literally an agent to allow me to leave him behind but he shook his head and said no I had to take him with me, it was all in the contract. So, in order for me to keep my baked beans firmly on the top of my helter skelter he’s residing in Ginger Nut Villa until we depart for our travels. He doesn’t like it very much so I’ve Sellotaped him to the wall until it’s time to leave…