I backed slowly out of my bedroom to make sure I still wasn't in my bed. When I got to the landing, I made the sound of feet going down the stairs with my mouth. Then! peeped back into my bedroom. The bed was empty, so, reassured that I was up and about, I made my way down the stairs. I was wearing a lovely pair of kingfisher blue, Persian bedroom slippers. The slippers were hand made by Marcus Spratt, the well known and greatly loved Persian slipper-smith.
I love my Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers. I would not sell them for any amount of money, or indeed any cubic capacity of stewed prunes, which I think, says a lot about me, my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers and the great love, devotion and respect I have for my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers.
£100?--No sir!
A 50 gallon drum of stewed prunes?--No sir!
The Marcus Spratt hand made Persian slippers are not for sale. No sirree.
As I consulted a ground floor map of my house to find the living room, I found Tommy my cat fulfilling a life long dream. He was slowly roasting in the oven with an apple in his mouth. For years little Tommy had wanted to pretend he was a suckling pig. The feline even wrote to Jim Will Fix It. Jimmy Saville wrote back saying "Now, now, now! How's about that-then?" But he never fixed it for little Tommy. Tears came to my eyes as I saw my beloved pussy slowly roasting on a revolving spit. PERSEVERANCE!
That's what sets Tommy above all other common or garden or run of the mill cats. Little Tommy had-persevered and now, he was reaping the rewards for all the years he had spent striving, hoping, praying and going to Lough Derg. As little Tommy waved from the rotary spit, I screamed, "HITACHI!" and fell in a heap behind the door pretendeding to be a poor, wretched creature, waiting for the tumbrel to take me to the guillotine for a short back and sides and manicure.
Tommy and I don't need Strictly Come Dancing or the X- Factor. We make our own fun. We also make our own bread, waste paper baskets and hula hoops. One thing Tommy and I do NOT make is our own bedroom slippers. We leave that to the Persian slipper king, Marcus Spratt.
On the dot 0f 17 minutes past one, Tommy and I sat down to scrunch.
Scrunch comes somewhere between lunch and brunch and is always a jolly, lively affair at the abode of Tommy and I. After scrunch, Tommy and I drew up two twin dwarfs from No 27, Primrose Hill, Bomb Alley, Down Town Basra and sat gazing intently at each other for seven hours.
After a silence of two hours, 39 minutes and 19 seconds, Tommy said,
"Hey, ratbag, that's some wart you have on your hooter."
"That's NOT a wart." I said."It's a beauty spot."
"It's got lots of ugly hair growing out of it," said Tommy.
"That's-beauty hair," I replied.
"It looks like a Japanese bonsai tree," said Tommy.
"It is not a Japanese bonsai tree," I replied,
"It is a beauty spot."
"If that is a beauty spot,
then Chernobyl must be a healing spa," said Tommy.
"Shut your face!" I yelled.
"You shut your face!" roared Tommy.
"I said it first!" I yelled.
"I thought it first!" roared Tommy.
"I'll brust your ugly face!" I screamed.
"I would like to see you try!" yelled Tommy.
"Come outside!" I yelled.
"I will!" roared Tommy.
Tommy and I kicked over the twin dwarfs and rushed out into the street.
Soon Tommy and I were rolling on the ground, biting, scratching and gouging at each other.
Tommy screamed high and loud as I bit him on the tail. I cursed and swore as Tommy hit me a punch right up the beauty spot.
Who knows how it would have ended if the PSNI had not pulled Tommy and me out from under a lorry.
"How's it going? How's it going? How's it going?" said a policeman from Tyrone. "What's going on here then?"
Tommy stood there bloody but not beaten. His lavender simmet hung in tatters and his Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers were bedraggled and not fit for purpose. Tommy panted, gasped and shrieked,
"Officer, what is that monstrosity on the nose of that old ratbag?"
The policeman peered into my bloodied face, recoiled and cried,
"It's a-wart, an ugly hairy-wart!"
Tommy gave a shriek of glee and began to dance like an Irish dancer on speed. As the prancing feline leaped and skipped, I lost the bap and gave Tommy a riser of unparalleled violence and ferocity with my Marcus Spratt hand made Persian slippers.
My case comes up next week.
The case will contain my Marcus Spratt Persian slippers, which will be entered in court as exhibit A.
Once again I shall plead insanity and amaze the court with my brilliant legal mind. But as I await justice, 'tis cold my feet are without the comforting warmth of my Marcus Spratt Persian bedroom slippers.
I think I have chilblains!.
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