They're out to get me....................
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The next morning I woke to the joys of an all-over rash, the taste of cigarettes and a colossal headache. Until, that is, thoughts of Big Bubba's magic solution gently prodded the clitoris of my brain's "possibilities centre".
Had he worked his magic already? Had my feline tormentors shat their best and final shit in my garden? The involuntary one, the dump of fear?
Drunk on anticipation, I carefully removed the frying pan from my wife's bosom and kissed her waxen cheek. Then I leapt out of bed and ran to the front door.
The Vista before me was as macabre as it was baffling.
Not a patch of grass was evident. My crazy-paving was completely obscured. So too the entire garden fence (including the garpet grippers glued on top by a random passer-by some months back).
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of wooden stools were crammed into my garden. Space was at such a premium that many were stacked three, sometimes four, high.
Two, I noticed, sat upon the read and yellow swings someone had stolen from the park and dumped randomly on my lawn some years previously. A light breeze nuzzled them gently too and fro.
Through the night it had rained. A pathetic, light drizzle layered everything it touched with a vinyl-silk finish. Everything, that is, except the solitary cat turd sitting regally in the centre of each and every wooden stool.
They shone with a gloss far, far more lustrous than anything the rain could paint. They were new and fresh and incredibly odorous................and the taunted me.
It turned out, as you've probably guessed, that "Big Bubba" was a retired circus ring-master and the Powdered Lion Stools he flogged over the net were exactly that; stools for circus lions to sit on (hey, just add water).
Apparently this was all explained in detail on Big Bubba's website and on the tin.
Was it bollocks!
* * * *
I don't recall much of what happened after my garden became a depot hub for Ikea. What I do remember is waking up in this little white room with a frying pan-sized egg on the top of my head.
For some reason I have a doctor (he says he isn't a rapist but I have my doubts) who insists that I wear this stylish, white jacket with buckles at the back. I love the coat but wish that its design did not rely on the constant folding of my arms.
Doctor Tabby (I suspect that's not his real name) says that there is no cat shit in my garden and that there never was.
He's lying, of course, so to annoy him I always accuse him of stealing the free bear suit I should have recieved with my dehydrated-wooden-stools. (Well I certainly didn't get it).
Tabby's response is always deadpan, "There were no stools either, Rob!"
To which I reply, "Who the hell is Rob?"
And so it goes...............
Captain Kirk (he always tells me to call him Jim) will get me out of here soon, I'm sure. But until then, all I can do is lament my unjust incarceration and contemplate the two important lessons learned from my cat encounters;
Never shake hands with a six-foot swan and don't ever sharpen fish in the presence of doves..................