Chocolate Day & Potages au Chocolat…

There has been a huge misunderstanding, dear readers and I have been wrongly accused of something I didn’t do, so I have. I will start at the beginning to give you an idea of what happened. It all began when we were filming for my very important culinary show. Yet again I’d had to go and fetch Mr. Pig from his aller se coucher because he’d failed to turn up on time. Filming of potages au chocolat began and was immediately stopped because Carpet Bag said she could see bogies in Mr. Pig’s eyes which looks very unprofessional on the picture box. After I’d finished gagging, I ‘scrubbed’ his face with a scouring pad which put him in a terribly bad mood, so it did and he began making that wittering noise. I was only doing what good friends do, dear readers, he’s so ungrateful, so he is. Then he copped a fandango when we told him the egg whites had to be whisked into stiff peaks. After five cat minutes of yes they are, no they’re not, we asked him to hold the bowl upside down over his head to prove our point. We were right and the egg whites did not stay in the bowl and landed all over him. Well, dear readers, I have never witnessed such a temper in all my days, so I haven’t. He swore at me, and used filthy curse words I can not and will not repeat and then he threw, yes threw the whisk at me and it pranged me on the head. Lucky for him, he ran because had I not been slightly dazed he would have found himself tied to the paddles of my hand held electric whisk for the purpose of ‘aiding’ me in making various culinary puddings. I have spindle marks across my head, so I do… Anyway, filming was postponed so I could rest my poorly head and Gracie could ‘press’ Mr. Pig about the importance of his attendance in the picture box programme. He doesn’t want Mrs. Eileen Pig seeing un pot-de-vin pictures of him so he has agreed to make more of an effort and apologized to me. I gave him a ‘squeeze’ to let him know it was all okay between us because that’s what real friends do…

Anyway, my cat week was filled with preparations for Chocolate day, one of my favourite events of the year. I had buried and hidden confectionaire all over my garden ready for the Chocolate Day hunt the next day. Now, I’m very particular about the rules of this game and it states that the party organiser and host is allowed a ten cat minute start ahead of everyone else. I wasn’t cheating, dear readers and just because I had more chocolate eggs than anyone else had nothing to do with my head start because once I’ve buried said confectionaire, I can never remember where I buried it. Anyway, I was accused of not hiding any chocolates anywhere in the garden. And that I, yes moi, had in fact had them in my larder all along. This is not the case at all and I want to make it clear I would not do such a thing. No one was looking in the right places, clearly. And anyway, Mr. Pig cheated by saddling up Marigold Head and riding him around the garden bashing my plants and flowers with a Polo stick (he’s been watching too many equine sports on the picture box). What happened some time later has absolutely nothing to do with me and I resent anyone saying otherwise. I know the fact that I have been craving a chicken roast dinner makes me the likely suspect but I had purchased a chicken from Mr. Waitrose that I had planned to cook for myself that evening. I know the fact that my stove was turned on at 220 degrees looks a little suspicious and that a tray of Paxo sage and onion stuffing balls were found in my larder. Yes, I had prepared said stuffing balls but they were to go with the roast chicken in my fridge. And yes, it was very strange that said chicken had mysteriously gone missing from my fridge making me look like a wee fibber but let me tell you, dear readers, I had been robbed, so I had. I did not leave the oven door open, wait for Mr. Pig to dismount Marigold Head and then chase him into my kitchen in the hope he would run into the hot cavernous hole. I, like anyone else frown upon murdering anyone who lives on or near the vicinity and would not do such a thing. I was merely running after him to guide him back into his cul-de-sac.  I told Gracie and the others to phone Mr. Waitrose because I had purchased the makings of a chicken roast dinner the day before and he would be able to verify my existence in his shop. But no, they believed I’d attempted to murder Marigold Head and that was that, Chocolate Day was ruined. I spent the rest of the day on my own watching re-runs of ‘How To Look Good in a Tank Top and Hot Pants’. But I was sure I’d been set up and someone had stolen my roast chicken so, later that night I went to investigate. I put one of Mr. Christopher’s black beany hats over my head having cut some eye holes in it so I could see out but no one could see me and I crept down to Mr. Pig’s caravan and peered through one of his windows. I was stunned, dear readers. It looked like a scene from Charles Dicken’s Christmas Carol and I was livid, so I was. My large roast chicken sat on his kitchenette worktop all plump and brown. His dining table was laden with crispy mini sausages and what looked like my Paxo sage and onion stuffing balls. Roast potatoes, roast parsnips, roast Yorkshire puddings, various vegetables which he can keep because I don’t like them, and candles and wine. Mr. Pig was getting ready to carve MY roast while Mrs. Eileen Pig joined her three rongeurs at the table. Visions of the Guinea Pig Death book blurred my vision and as I turned to leave so I could fetch my rolling pin, ice bucket and some Bicarbonate of Soda I ran straight into Marigold Head. Squawking and screeching ensued and yet again, dear readers I was caught red beanded. Out in the dark wearing a balaclava type hat, grappling with Marigold Head…I can see how it looks, so I can…

I must dash dear readers, because creating meals for one is an arduous task and much harder than you think and I want to prepare some to put in the freezer for the solitary cat week ahead. This way I can ding them in my microwave so I can feel the full impact of my isolement cellulaire. I quite like being ignored, I can at least eat what I want when I want. Watch what I want on the picture box when I want and and and…

Your best fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. I know you think I will have made Mr. Pig suffer some terrible torture for his abhorrent crime but I’ve learnt that revenge is not the way to deal with these situations, dear readers and he is, after all, still my friend and I accept him for all his faults and foibles, so I do. To show him there was no remorse I decided to grant him his life long wish to swim with dolphins. I ‘tied’ him into his kagoul, ‘knotted’ him onto one of Mr. Christopher’s fishing rods and took him down to the local river. Unfortunately we didn’t see any dolphins that day but he had the joyous experience of ‘snorkelling’ with some pike…