illustration by Anthony Smith Sir Teddie Trumpington Trubshaw stopped smoking, drinking, overindulging, gambling and chasing women, all at the same time, co-incidentally, at the very moment of his sudden death. Anyone in a skirt under the age of 90 with a pulse was considered fair game by 'Tiger Tally-Ho Tart and Trollop Targetter'  as he was known by his  peers!

Everyone agreed it was a lovely funeral. The small family chapel in the grounds of Gripewater Grange was crowded with royalty, avoiding the press, and chavs, the politically correct name for locals from the village, (Lower Sozzlebury, just outside the gates of Gripewater Grange in Upper Sozzlebury) all desperate to get their grubby faces on TV. All were curious to gawp at the circus which came to town on the day of the service as The Right Reverend, Reverend Curmudgeonly extolled the virtue of sin and how sin can be ‘such fun, dahlings’.

I attended the funeral, sitting in Teddie’s place in the pew, tucked upon a silk cushion in a wicker basket by the side of my Mistress, Lady Trumpington Trubshaw who dotes upon me.  I snoozed throughout the entire performance as Lady Fanny swigged gin from her thermos reached from her Looi Voooi handbag and the village chavs chomped on pork scratchings and Prongles. It was the entertainment of the year for the villagers.

From my point of view, I now get Her Ladyship all to myself, with the exception of old Nobed Skrowte whose purpose in life is to serve my Her Ladyship …. And me 24/7.

Lady Fanny’s very good friends, Chulls and his wife Cami-Knickers Park Your Bowler Hat, were there. As were Chull’s aged parents Izzy and Flip. Also her bestest chums from her schooldays at St Rhubarb’s, Dame Prudence Proops-Lightly and Drusilla Ponkington Pipsqueak, who was with her daughter Winifred, Lady F’s god daughter.  After the service in the chapel everyone retired to the Grange for a jolly good party.

Several of the chavs got absolutely ratarsed whilst the posh lot got a bit skwiffy.

When it was over, all the finger nibbles and vol au vents from Fartnums consumed, all the Bollicker champagne quaffed, tales and memories of Sir Teddie all exhausted then all the people had left, Skrowte scooped up all the hundreds of sympathy cards and hurled them onto the fire.

“Waste not want not,” he mumbled. “That will be a free warm for a few hours. Let’s get life back to normal here at Gripers, albeit the economy version.” With that he winked at me as I stretched out on the centuries old family horsehair sofa. Then he downed the remains of the Cognac bottle which had been the favourite tipple of Sir Teddie.

‘He won’t be needing that now,’ he smirked. ‘Shame to let it go to waste and waste is something we’ll no longer be tolerating here at Gripewater Grange!’

Carol Lake

Illustrated by the marvellous Anthony Smith of 'Learn to Speak Cat' fame. 

One Cat is Company

"One cat is company.
Two cats are a conspiracy. 
Three cats is an attempted takeover.
Four or more cats is a complete coup!"

Shona Steele (Australia)

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