Ballet, Petrol Cans and Piles

I was sitting hunched in the corner, with two melons clutched in my hands. I was pretending to be Alex Reid the well known cage fighter and cross dresser.
Six buglers from the household cavalry announced the arrival of Tommy my cat.
Tommy stood there, a vision in pink taffeta.I gazed at him with my lazy eye and yelled, "HI! HI boy! You've been reading Babara Cartland again."
"Tommy did a twirl and cried, "Yes I have. I like a good simmet ripper."
I brought a window down from the attic, looked out of it and said, "I worry about you Tommy. Why do you never play football with the other cats? You never ride your bike, or watch the wrestling on TV. All you ever do is gaze at yourself in the mirror and scream with pain as you perform yet another Brazilian. Is there anything you want to tell me Tommy? You know I will always be there for you."
Tommy put his head down and mumbled something, "What?" I cried. "I can't hear you. Don't stand there like a tube, spit it out."
There was a rustle of taffeta and Tommy shrieked, "I want to be a ballet dancer like Billy Elliot."
In the silence that followed, you could have heard a pinata fall.
"Tommy," I said, "there is going to be a Pinteresque pause. Go away and come back in 35 minutes time."
"Okey-dokey," said Tommy and the fastidious feline went upstairs with a rippling rustle of taffeta that set my teeth on edge. When he had gone I looked at a mound of dead skin that had fallen off me and said, "Well, this is a right rub-a-dub. This is a right fiddle-faddle and if I'm not mistaken a right ding-a-ling."
Thirty five minutes later, another rustle of taffeta announced the arrival of Tommy.
"YOU SHALL-DANCE!" I yelled.
He gave a shriek of joy.
"BUT," I said, "with one stipulation. You will not wear wee pink knickers, BUT, will instead wear a pair of grey long-johns with a flap at the back."
"Oh how the smile of a cat can turn to a gurn!
Great Show on Friday Kid, as you took part in a mobile antiques roadshow. How old Jordie got the buckgoat on the bus is still a mystery. The star of the show was the petrol can man.
"See this opening?" he explained,"That's where the petrol goes in. LOOK!" he yelled. "The can has SHELL printed on it, which proves beyond doubt that this IS a petrol can!"
"That man knows his petrol cans" said Tommy.
"Gerry is speechless," I said, "over awed by the scope and knowledge of a man who has devoted his life to-petrol cans."
"I wish I was a petrol can man," said Tommy. "I would sit among my petrol cans in a state of happiness bordering on ecstatic ecstasy."
"Why don't you pay the petrol can man a visit?" I said. "His name is John Steinbeck and he lives on Cannery Row."
"Oh bye the bye," said Tommy, "our mutual friend is suffering from the grapes of wrath."
"Ah, the pesky piles," I said. "Nature's way of telling you not to sit down."
"Mice and men," said Tommy with a puzzled frown, "I keep getting them mixed up."
"Hush Tommy!" I said. "Here comes Tess of the D'Urbervilles and you know what a big mouth she's got!"