THE FIRST THING I DO IN THE MORNING IS LOOK FOR MY PUSSY

Wednesday morning found me and Tommy my cat going through our Wednesday morning routine. I was rolling round the floor, wearing a brown catsuit pretending to be an orphaned Malteeser. Tommy was chug-chugging round the room pretending to be the last train to Clarksville. If you haven't tried it, don't judge us. Some people just get up, eat tea and toast and watch Jeremy Kyle-and you have the cheek to call US weird? A rolling stone may gather no moss, but a rolling malteeser, gathers a lot of fluff. If if you don't believe me, I will send you a drawing of my brown catsuit. Tommy says that the fluff sticks to the catsuit, but I believe that the catsuit sticks to the fluff. Will we ever know which theory is correct? Probably not, now that the days are getting shorter. Why are the days so stupid as to take fashion advice from old father time? Bimbos, that is what the days are-Bimbos, air heads, without a brain in their pretty little heads. The nights are so different. They have been wearing black for as long as I remember and black suits the nights so well, for one or two are a little pudgy. The night before Christmas is a lovely night. If there was an X-factor for nights, I think the night before Christmas would win it. The night after Christmas, is a big roly-poly and would be sent packing by Simon Cowell and his minions. You may disagree, that's up to you. That's why God gave you a brain and the hands to scratch it.
THEN ....Bang-Bang-Bang! I jumped into Tommy's arms and screamed, "What was that?" "What was what?" said Tommy. "Bang-Bang-Bang!" I said. "Here comes the bogey man," sang Tommy. "You must have heard it Tommy?" I said. "Heard what?" said Tommy. "The three loud bangs," I said. "Oh that!" said Tommy. "Of course I heard that! I believe someone is knocking at the front door." "Knocking at the front door?" I said. "Yes," said Tommy. "Some people go around knocking at front doors, in the hope you will open the door." "What do they want?" I said. "What do these door-knockers want?" "Well," said Tommy "The way I see it, they want you to open the door so they can come in, or talk to you at the front door." "What's the world coming to?" I shrieked. "Did that fine young Scottish girl, Gretna Green die in vain?" "Looks like it," said Tommy. "Why don't you open the front door and see who it is?" "But if I see them they will see me and I don't want to be seen." "Here," said Tommy, "hold this large photograph in front of your face and no one will know it is you." "What a great idea," I cried, hiding behind a large photograph of me with my tongue stuck out. The lock on the door was a bit stiff, so Tommy and I decided to take the hinges off instead. It only took us 45 minutes and that includes a 10 minute tea break. When the door was finally opened, Tommy and I were confronted by a tall figure in uniform. "Lord Kitchener, I presume?" I said. "Close," said the tall man. "No, I'm the postman, you have to sign for this letter." "Surely," I said with a sexy smile, "the letter must be signed already, signed by the person who wrote it?" "Yes," said the postman "But you have to sign that you received the letter." "Another restriction on our liberty!" I yelled, as I scrawled my name and grabbed the letter. I opened the letter, by holding it over the steam from a boiling kettle, took off my glasses and read.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU, out of all the people in the world and surrounding districts, have been picked by our computer, as the winner of a GOLD Medal in the recent OLYMPIC GAMES in China for the three-legged race. All you have to do to collect your GOLD MEDAL, is send all the money you have in the house, plus your banking details to a PO box in Africa and your GOLD MEDALS will be posted to you in a plain, brown envelope.
"YIPPEE!" yelled Tommy. "Talk about a stroke of luck. A gold medal each. Let's send our bank details off immediately." Which we did. That was six months ago, but any day now, Tommy my cat and I will walk proudly down the Donegal Road, wearing our three-legged race gold medals.
As I walked alone later that night, taking some food to Grandma who lives in the woods, I heard the most unearthly shriek coming from behind some wheelie-bins in a darkened entry. Out of the entry lumbered Steven "Tubby" Nolan, holding a letter aloft and bellowing "Listen to this you slabbers and bucket bakes! I, Steven Jerome Nolan, have just won a gold medal in the recent Olympic games in China, for obese,obscene gluttony bordering on extreme face stuffing. I must run home, sell my house and car and wait for my medal." I smiled at the jolly fat man. How well I remembered my joy when I won the gold medal for the three-legged race. I wonder will my medal come tomorrow? If it does, Tommy and I will have to take the door off its hinges again. The lock is still stuck, I think earwigs may be squatting in it.
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I don't remember running the three-legged race. I must have been on the Night Nurse that week.