I should like to begin by apologising to all those who may have been alarmed by my last entry. Some of my dearest friends have been kind enough to send messages of concern, and for that I love them all the more. I have to admit that I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the time but I'm much better now.
I will deal with the least pleasant aspect now, and have done with it. I said I would never mention him in this blog again. I hoped with all my meaty soul that it would not be necessary to go against this fervent wish. But no. BC has re-entered the life of my partner. Yes, 'twas he who summoned my partner out to an enjoyable evening the other day and the matter has not been left to rest there. My partner doesn't seem too disturbed by all this. In fact, I am finding her cheery air of detached calm almost frightening. Several evenings, I have proffered my furry, muscled shoulder - unasked-for, too! - for her to sob into. But she has just smiled and patted it. She seems almost, and I hate to say it, happy. But I have not been fooled into meeting the boy. No, that indignity has not been forced upon me. Something is very definitely not right. She seems to have him but not have him and yet is not running around trying to procure more contact. I understand it not but one thing I DO know is what I have often stated: No good can come of this. Long-time readers of this blog may recall that in the first EVER entry, way back in August 2006, I had a toot about BC. I am having a toot about him now. And you may be sure that in my final blog entry on this earth, as my shaking paw extends feverishly towards the keyboard to tap out the dying barks of an elderly (but still devastatingly handsome) Staffordshire, it will be to have a toot about BC. But, for now, I have done on this matter. You know my mind.
My three cat tormentors are still away on holiday. I have enjoyed the peace, but know that the respite is only temporary. I strongly suspect the trio of happy funsters have been using their downtime to concoct more hellish schemes to annoy me. Apparently they have been despatched to a luxury cattery with indoor heated runs, each containing a webcam - so that their lovingly deluded owners can log on from anywhere in the world, put in the run number of their own cat and then watch what their moggy is doing. Why? WHY??? Surely the long-suffering owners have taken a holiday to get AWAY from the little s*ds, not to sit in an expensive hotel room, watching their cats lick their privates over the internet? Like some godforsaken late-night satellite tv show (or an average episode of Big Brother)... People are sick creatures sometimes. If it had been down to me, I'd have made a "mistake" with the paperwork and packed the wretched felines off to the abbatoir instead. Now that WOULD be worth watching on a webcam....
A small card arrived in the post the other day, from the Royal Mail itself. It announced that there was an item of unpaid mail awaiting collection at the local sorting office. If my partner wanted it, she had to go down there and pay a fine of £1.31. Of course, it didn't say what the item actually was. Chuntering under her breath, my partner went off to the Post Office. She looked even less happy when she returned, and thrust something in my direction. This is what £1.31 of money that could potentially have been spent on me had paid for (with apologies for the rather poor scan quality):
Well, fine. If this sort of childish thing amuses their impotent little minds then I pity them. I really do. Come on back from your holiday little kitties - Jasper will be waiting for you...
Good night.
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