Chris's Mass Marinade and Baby Cheeses

There's no doubt about it; it's been a cold spell. Frost on the lawn every morning. Makes your pads ache! And solid garden soil contributing to the difficulty of ones daily ablution routine. As if that's not enough, the humans have been at home a lot more than normal. This means we have to tolerate being half heartedly entertained and fiddled with more than usual. You know; balls of wool, rulers under newspapers, tummy tickles - that kind of thing. Humans call this time of year Chris mass, and there's often mention of baby Cheeses. Well, we don't know anyone called Chris and we certainly haven't seen masses of them, but I am partial to a lump of cheese. Sadly, it's not often on my 'a la ca rte' menu.
'Turkey' was another word which perked my ears skyward for a few days but even that was not doled out with the accustomed abundance this year. Apparently, to economise on waste, only a turkey crown was cooked. Now, in my opinion, if a turkey looks more attractive with crown adornment, then where's the sense in cooking that and leaving him gobbling about with all his ugly bits a-dangle!
"There's not much left for those one step down the food chain," said mister with an insincere look of sympathy on his fat cheeked turkey munching face as he looked down at me beneath the dining table. I put my ears back in dismay, rather like an F16 fighter's wings, and produced the pleading - please don't let me starve - eyes but it was to no avail. Crackers were soon pulled, silly hats worn, jollity prevailing while Millhouse and I kept a low profile behind Chris's tree.
There was something new on the menu, however. It took the form of a pouch bearing the grand title of 'fishy and meaty marinade'. Squirted disparagingly over mister's shoulder into our bowls while he inaccurately glugged some more wine randomly around the kitchen near some glasses.
Well, we gave it try. A tentative sniff. It wasn't bad enough to warrant a jab with a paw, but it took some of the wonderment out of the word 'marinade' when you studied this mysterious paupers jelly with a few microscopic weasley slivers of meat dotted about in it. We looked at one another in abject horror then ate slowly, reluctantly, with nostrils flared and slightly curled upper lips.
"Main thing is, we're still alive," muttered Millhouse as we retired to our respective sleeping spots away from the turmoil. Meantime, the humans were building huge piles of books, boxes and ripped up paper; like giants from 'Jack and the Beanstalk' counting their acquisitions. Oh well, so much for the cold turkey - uncrowned!
Indeed the best bit of the whole holiday had been the arrival of the second generation of humans on Chris's mass evening. I used to call them the young ones, but they're big now. This meant the upstairs bedrooms being opened up for general use revealing a whole new world of secret sleeping places for me. Full of interesting jumble; boxes stored and forgotten. Dusty smells of the past. "We likes that, my precious!" I delved with unwatched delight to emerged much later with dishevelled whiskers and powdery cheeks. More washing to do!
Of a morning I would lunge against these bedroom doors until any dozy human would unthinkingly allow me access. Then I'd curl up next to the oversleeping guest leaning heavily against them and purring loudly; oh and dribbling quite profusely. Can't help it, sorry! - got very productive salivary glands, me. The principal objective of this behaviour is to make the occupant so hot and repulsed by the general steaminess of their situation that they roll out of bed and stomp off leaving me the freedom of the whole bed for the morning. Never fails.
On Chris's mass evening too came Elizabeth Taylor from next door. No, not the one who kept marrying Richard Burton - though she shares the same name - and, I wouldn't mind betting, could probably launch a thousand ships after the commotion she wrought. Well, she does like a whiskey or two! And she certainly launched Millhouse and me into the garden when, in a somewhat tipsy condition, she decided to help the humans give us our worming tablets! I ask you! Unspeakable humiliation! All humans present were instructed to clap once simultaneously as the pill was popped. This was on the pretext that it would make us swallow. We know this game too well to fall for it straight away. But it was third time lucky for Cleopatra and, by golly, two ships were launched into the night - we legged it like two horses in National Velvet! The cat flap flapped like western saloon bar doors. We galloped a good twenty feet!

Happy New Year to my fellow Moggys!



Herky