Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Appearance Fi, Fi, Fo, Fum
I'm so jolly disappointed. The other day, I'd successfully amassed the princely sum of 250,000 Holy Groats, so that I could obtain a private audience with His Eminence Dagwald Caedmeron - the Chief Cock and Bluebottle Washer of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration (don't ask how I acquired it - I won't tell you). I was dearly hoping that the Glorious Leader would be available, so that I could ask him a few favours, get him to do a little dance, and sing me a song from the Redistributionists' hymn book; I'd arranged it all with one of Caedmeron's faithful apparatchiks - through the good offices of my dear friend Lareow - the Chief Mouse Catcher and Rat Befriender of the Principal Minister's residence.
But this neat little arrangement was blown to pieces when Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach's eminent soothsayer Sandy Tides blew the entire thing open, and brought the whole business under the unwelcome, burning glare of publicity. The docile, knuckle-dragging Northumbrian public went into paroxysms of rage, outrage, indignation and business for all of fifteen microseconds. It's so terribly sad, and frankly, I'm hopping mad. Watch out for my claws, people. I'm in no mood for nonsense. This is the end of my public health warning.
Consequently, Caedmeron has lost a valuable source of his Saturday pocket money, and the Tree Faction have discovered that one of their most profitable revenue streams has cruelly evaporated under the glare of the Northumbrian spring sunshine. Of course, denials are flying about with the usual counter-accusations against the holy and blameless Redistributionist Faction, who'd perfected such endeavours in their own fifteen thousand-year watch over the Kingdom. But they always managed to get away with it. It's all so unfair.
And now your Cat is saddled with the embarrassment of 250,000 Holy Groats - and I'm going to have to find all the well-wishers and benefactors who coughed up the dosh and return it to them. This is an unwelcome exercise in feline humility. After all, a cat doesn't need money: a plate of fish alone is sufficient for our simple needs.
So what's Caddy Boy going to do now? Life is full of surprises. Expect another one anytime soon...
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