…or so they tell me. Of course I have the tree and the I’ll have the dinner (for two as always) and the wine and the presents and treats. But Jolly is not to be found. There is just too much misery on the media for me to ignore; floods, droughts, wars, refugees, hunger, poverty. To be JOLLY would seem inappropritely unfeeling.

I do feel thankful though for all I have! and I have lots and lots of life’s best gifts — a good (and funny) husband — I need that humour to balance me! A cosy home (unaffected by all the above traumas) more than enough to eat (in fact the New Year resolutions is not to eat so much) — and I live in a peaceful and quiet place.

I wish everyone this contented and I hope my friends reading this, are.

I have two seasonal poems in our Christmas Canzonet at The Linnet’s Wings and a lovely Christmassy little story in our regular Autumn Issue — Story Fairy, as well as my regular editorial. And I was pleased to back in Every Day Fiction‘s line-up this month as well as in Postcard Poems and Prose with Clean Boots. I hope you will take a look at all of those.

I have been neglecting my blog of late. I will engeavour to do better next year.

And on a lighter note — my version of Puss in Boots!

Never Trust a Talking Cat

Ever since that cat arrived
my life’s gone down the chute.
To start with he demanded
a pair of shiny boots.

I tried to state the obvious;
I was the one in charge
but he stood up on his hind legs
his eyes all bright and large,

he put his forepaws on his waist
and whiskered his disdain,
‘I’ll need a coat and trousers too.
Cats do not like the rain.’

His stolid and unflinching look
crumpled my resolution.
To give him what he wanted
seemed the easiest solution.

When he started poaching pheasants;
taking presents to the king
I thought Oh good! I’m rid of him
You know — it’s a cat thing.

But not a bit of it. This cat
had hatched a plan you see
and part of it involved a bit
of subterfuge and me.

The Royals had a daughter
a bit plain — a bit rotund,
for whom it seemed no suitor
suitable had yet been found

and Puss, that’s what I called him,
fancied a life of luxury
and decided in his scheming way
that she should marry me.

So while I was skinny-dipping
he purloined all my clothes,
flagged down the princess’ carriage
and she said: Here put on those

and made her footman take his off.
She said I looked quite fine.
Then she drove me to the palace
and ordered meat and wine.

I don’t recall what happened next
but it seems I am engaged.
That furtive and rapacious cat
had my whole life story staged.

It’s the night before the wedding
and I’ve never been more sure
her father the King’s an imbecile
and the princess is a whore.

I know I can’t go through with it.
Marry? I’d rather kill her.
I was never meant to be a prince.
I’m content as a simple a miller.

I am writing this for you today
‘cos I won’t be here tomorrow.
Don’t mess with talking animals.
They’ll only bring you sorrow.

Don’t be like me, so innocent!
Talking cats aren’t at all cute.
They’re malevolent, maleficent.
Just give the cat the boot!