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…