Tarte Tatin & a Poorly Mr. Pig…

After forty three takes Carpet Bag Baggy Puss threw what can only be described as a wobbly. I’d had an argument with Mr. Pig about the filling for this weeks recipe of Tarte Tatin. I wanted to fill the pastry case with cocktail cherries and he wanted pineapple chunks - so typically common of him, so it is. Then I began having a desaccord with him about the amount of pastry lattice that should adorn said Tarte Tatin when Carpet Bag pranged me over the back of the head with a sieve. This caused me to have a reflex action, dear readers and I accidentally ‘flipped’ Mr. Pig with my spatula and somehow he ended up in my mixing bowl entangled in my electric beaters which, due to the reflex action on my baked beans was switched on. My pranged head caused me to be temporarily disorientated and it was a little while before I realised I needed to turn the appliance off. Unfortunately cutting the power off at the plug caused Mr. Pig to ‘fling’ himself from the bowl and he landed on my saucepan rack which hangs above my sink. He swung there for a wee moment, announced he had a sore throat and then plopped into the dirty washing up suds of the sink. Through the haze of my pranged head, sieve still attached due to one of Carpet Bag’s Cursed Claws holding it in place, I ran to his rescue. It took me a while to find him amongst all the crockery and cutlery. Once I’d finished washing the dishes and let the water out, he appeared in the whirlpool of the plug hole. I gave him a ‘squeeze’ and eventually he coughed out all the water he’d consumed during his unprompted swim.

After he’d composed himself I gave him a quick test to complete to prove he did actually have a sore throat and he wasn’t telling fibs. I told him if he couldn’t pat his head, rub his tummy and skip in a clockwise direction whilst touching his nose with his tongue then he was indeed poorly. He wasn’t keen on the idea at first but after I told him She would take him to the Vets and he would have to take off his flip flops and have his temperature taken which involved his unmentionables, he agreed. After eight attempts at the activity we all concluded that he did in fact have the poorlies and filming would have to be postponed yet again. I popped him in the fridge to chill for a brief moment (he’d fainted from all the physical exertion and I’d heard that ‘coldness’ revives a swoon) while I completed the Tarte Tatin and popped it into the stove. My fridge remedy did indeed work and halfway through my afternoon picture box film, Gone With The Wind I heard him tapping on the door. I grabbed him from my chiller cabinet before he got any ideas about filling his guele hole with my luxury food items and quickly ran him under the hot tap because he was shivering so bad from his poorliness. Then I took him home so that Mrs. Eileen Pig could look after him. I was shocked at her selfishness, dear readers. Before I could say spam fritter, she’d grabbed her three stupid rongeurs and ran out of the door saying she couldn’t risk her wee bebe cretins getting any germs and she’d be staying with Mr. Pig’s family who are still situated in the hippy commune they have created in my garden. I know it’s nothing to do with germs, it’s because she can’t bear to look after him. I can’t blame her, she’s been waiting on him paw and baked bean while he’s been writing his stupid cookery book and trust me, dear readers, having looked after him all cat week I can see why she fled, so I can. But, because I am such a good friend and have an extremely selfless nature I returned him to my cottage so I could nurse him back to health and I even offered to ‘edit’ his book for him. He declined, although I still can’t understand why. After all, I am far more illiterate than he is.

I have paid dearly for my altruism, dear readers because I have now contracted the poorlies from the germ ridden andouille. I have gone above and beyond the call of duty for him and not one word of thanks have I heard him utter from his stupid gob. I ‘warmed’ him with She’s hair dryer when he was shivering with cold, ‘cooled’ him with ice packs when his fever was unbearable, ‘bleached’ the blackcurrant moustache stain he acquired from drinking too much Vimto,  stuck cotton buds up his nose when it was running with bogies, and I even allowed him to use my home-made poultice to help clear his congested air holes. I, dear readers had to endure sleepless nights of constant coughing, snorting and sneezing. There was only one occasion when, due to an episode of delerium caused by sleep deprivation did I ‘launch’ him from my bedroom via the window. Sick guinea pigs are not easy to look after especially when you have a sieve ‘pinned’ to your head.

Anyway, I must dash, dear readers because filming of my very important picture box programme isn’t going very well at all and I must rest in front of the picture box in order to recuperate in time for the next episode. Gracie has provided me with a stack of spam fritters, four Norfolk Pasties, six packets of Frazzles, three Cadbury’s Curly Wurlys, two packets of Tunnock’s Teacakes and eight Fondant Fancies to consume, all for the benefit of my well being. She says you have to feed the poorlies, dear readers and my baked beans are still very pale which tells me I haven’t recovered just yet, so I haven’t…

By the way, don’t let anyone tell you Tarte Tatin doesn’t have pastry lattice or tinned or jarred fruit in it because according to Mr. Kipling’s recipe it does, so it does… I have acquired another two Cursed Claws because of this argument but I’m prepared to suffer for my art, so I am…

Your bestest fluff

Wilfred.

Piss. S. When I said I ‘launched’ Mr. Pig from my bedroom window, I didn’t do it, you understand, in a malicious manner. I had made a poultice and filled it with a  special remedic mix of dried herbs, toothpaste, mouthwash, chilli flakes, smoked paprika and Olbas oil. I popped Mr. Pig inside the miraculum healing ball, tied him securely inside so he could benefit from the pungent vapours and, having secured it to a pole I ‘balanced’ him from my cottage roof for the night so he could waft away in the cool night air…he needed the fresh poultice fragrances because he was beginning to whiff, so he was…I am not a weather vane, dear readers…how was I to know there was going to be a sharp frost…