It has taken me over a week to recover adequately from the hysteria, hype and biscuit surrounding the passing of Hilda the Roofer; I've been one exhausted kitty.
Despite my fatigue, the demands and responsibilities of my empire have still remained; mice have had to be stalked and seized, territory has had to be patrolled, and would-be feline invaders have had to be repelled with a torn ear for good measure. All of this normality has helped to keep maintain some measure of pleasure and sanity.
After a relatively blissful respite from the affairs of human folly however, yet another astonishing development has arrived unannounced (and equally unwelcome) onto my euphoric horizon. It arrived through the good offices of Feaxede the Fox, who has often been the harbinger of bad news, doom and desolation. But it's not his fault; he's as tormented by these developments as I am, and I regard him as a kinsman, since he shares many of my griefs. Whatever.
Please sit down and take slow, deep breaths, for what I'm about to impart to you. Today the news has filtered through the soothsayers of the Northumbrian Kingdom of the dismantling of Jay Less. When I heard this from Feaxede's mouth, my instinctive reaction was to disgorge the entire contents of my alimentary system; it wasn't pretty. But I feel so much better now, and I can almost relate this to you without signs of colonic distress.
Should any reader be unaware of the matter to which I allude, Jay Less was a small troupe of young singers and dancers who gained fame and notoriety throughout the Realm for their remarkable terpsichorean prowess. Established about five minutes ago as protegés of the influential cleric and Lothario impresario Father Simeon the Cowl, they set the Realm alight with their ditties and lays about lost love, magic mushrooms, dancing and unrequited affection. In every town, village and hamlet where they wandered to dump their artistic skills, they had myriads of small girls in thrall while accumulating a sizeable collective treasury of Holy Groats. The universe lay spread out before their dancing feet.
But now the dream is over; the hopes and expectations of myriads of young female Northumbrians lie dashed in a million shards. If a Cat could weep, it would be right now. But I can't. So I won't.
A great wail of anguish has resounded throughout the Kingdom, and the banners now hang at half mast - in deference to the pantaloons that Jay Less were accustomed to half wearing. Since this morning, an entire generation has been failed: let down by gods who held out such transient promise.
Sick transit gloria mundi. Excuse me.. nature calls. Again..
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