My friend, Bruce, a very fine Persian Blue, and I were laying in the netting above the bar in the Artful Dodger, watching television. You humans seem completely preoccupied with something called ‘Biscuit’. We were watching a huge blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Abyssinian tomcat called Boris. He was up on his hind-quarters, waving his arms, and banging on about a ‘constitutional sausage’ and how we should ‘bottle Biscuits’ (something I completely fail to understand!) and to ‘Chuck chestnuts’. He was also very rude about a charming little man called Jeremy Catflap who, as far as I can see, never says anything at all and, by all accounts, would rather live in another country anyway. All very confusing.
And then, a very strange occurrence. The crowd became hushed, the hall darkened. Clearly something very important was about to happen. What was this?. Music? The sound of ‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBACAT, the spotlights blazed and Teezer Maybot appeared in a jet black jumpsuit which covered her otherwise grey fur. It was most peculiar. She was cavorting, capering, gambolling, prancing, skipping, performing backflips and boogying and a shimmy-shakin’ like a disco divaqueen, baby. And all the people clapped and danced and sang and cheered the Maybot to the high heavens and everyone forgot about Boris and Biscuit and lived happily ever after – well, about five minutes.
Apparently, it’s all something to do with ‘leaving’ Europe – that big place across the water with Spain in it. It seems perfectly simple to me. Just open the door. And, being a cat, I might go through it or I might not – just to be awkward. I don’t like being told what to do. I want to be asked, nicely! I certainly won’t be leaving if it’s raining, and Bruce and I are comfortable on the sofa, whatever that tipsy little Jean-Claws Juncker might want. On the other hand, I would always like to have the right to leave the EU if I wanted to. After all, it might be nice outside and I might sniff something interesting. On the other paw, it does seem to require too much effort. Bruce and I will keep sitting here until it all blows over.
And, anyway, my other feline friend Pascal says that French cats will just carry on as normal, spitting at us, and coming into the garden for a poo whether we leave the EU or not! So there! Humph!
See you next month, pusscats!
"Brilliant descriptions of characters and places enrich a twisty plot that kept me guessing right to the end. John Simes is a master story teller."James Stevenson, Author