Les banderoles royales

I am very disappointed to report that my alternative “God save the king” royal bunting didn’t work out.

Alas, despite paying a premium for express delivery so that it would make Le Château the talk of the street during the jubilee, it didn’t arrive on time. When it did arrive, three days late, we weren’t home (because, obviously, we hadn’t planned for it to arrive on that day) and so we had to make the perilous, Dariénesque journey to the sorting office in Hounslow to collect it.

When we collected it, Catorze’s face looked like this:

What the hell?

And, when they reworked it and – eventually, three weeks later, after some quite odd emails from them which read as if written by a semi-literate bot – sent me a digital proof to approve, it looked like this:

WHAT THE HELL?

Is it THAT difficult for someone to centre a picture? Well, ok, obviously it is.

At that point I told them not to bother, so I asked for a full refund, and they happily obliged. Yes, happily. They seemed quite chipper about the fact that they’d given me shambolic service and a shambolic product.

It’s such a shame as it would have been perfect not only for the jubilee but also for today, which is the birthday of the human Louis XIV. But, luckily, the little sod wouldn’t know whether or not we put up bunting and, if he did, he wouldn’t care.

This was what I originally had in mind when I started my search for jubilee bunting:

Hilariously, in the run-up to the jubilee these were all sold out.

And somehow I feel that, even at the height of their naughtiness, the Sex Pistols (younger followers: ask your grandparents’ cooler friends) would have been less troublesome than Le Roi.

Typical noblesse, sitting on their thrones and living a life of luxury whilst we peasants languish.

Vive la Roipublique

Merde, merde and thrice merde: my alternative bunting didn’t arrive, despite me paying an eye-stingingly expensive delivery charge to have it in time for the weekend. So I guess it will have to wait until the next noteworthy royal event, and luckily it’s the kind of timeless design that will keep.

Cat Daddy: “Is it the kind of thing that’ll draw attention to our house?”

You could say that, yes.

At least the platinum jubilee is over now, although its efforts to drive me insane worked a treat. Last week I was so far gone that I swore I could see Boris Johnson’s face in Louis Catorze’s bald patch. You can see it too, right?

Cat Daddy thinks the bald patch is expanding, yet I think we’ve had some regrowth since the above photo was taken. I don’t really care which of us is right because the most important thing is that it doesn’t look like Boris Johnson anymore. It now looks like Ghostface from Scream or Edward Scissorhands, depending on the angle and the light, but either of those would be far preferable to Boris Johnson.

In any case, it’s still not bothering Catorze. And I’m happy to just leave it for now, but I’m ready to whisk him back to the vet should I spot any cuts, soreness or changes of temperament/habit.

Parmi les autres nouvelles, we were given a flower bouquet recently which contained evil lilies. Lilies are highly toxic to cats so, if we ever receive them, we gently fish them out of the bouquet and dispose of them, leaving the cat-harmless flowers in place. On this occasion, Cat Daddy put them into the garden waste recycling bag in an unobtrusive corner of the garden, far from inquisitive Catorzian paws.

Naturellement, despite never usually venturing into this part of the garden, Catorze suddenly decided that the green waste recycling bag was the most interesting and attractive item in the world. Luckily we were able to whisk him to safety and Cat Daddy rearranged the bag, rolling it tightly like a Swiss roll* and placing a few bricks on top to seal in the contagion until the next collection (although no British person has the faintest idea when this will be, since the double bank holiday has stuffed up our bin days).

*Younger followers: don’t bother asking your Swiss friends. Ask your older relatives who lived in the U.K. during the 70s or 80s.

I had hoped that, in his advanced years, Sa Maj might show SOME sign of stopping all his nonsense. But it’s no real surprise that he hasn’t.

We have no idea what this was about.

Le jubilé de platine

Today marks the Queen’s platinum jubilee and, apparently, there are around sixteen thousand street parties being held around the U.K. this weekend. Neither Cat Daddy nor I are royalists and we find it all rather grotesque and distasteful, so we won’t be joining in any celebrations. Also, since we are already being bled dry to fund the luxurious lifestyle of a certain member of the French aristocracy, we have neither the time nor the wherewithal to fuss over another monarch.

My friend Lizzi sent me this a few days ago (see below). At first I thought it was a meme, but it’s actually more like a reminder. A Polite Reminder*, in fact, politely reminding us that, if we aren’t already providing our feline overlords with royal feasts, tributes, castles and thrones, we flippin’ well ought to:

It’s a full house for Sa Maj.

*Non-Brits, ask your British friends and they will tell you that a Polite Reminder is the opposite of what it appears to be. Polite Reminders also vary in their level of politeness, for instance the one above is moderate, but we have a far less polite Polite Reminder affixed with Blu Tac above the sink at work, typed in Comic Sans font with the message: “POLITE REMINDER: STOP LEAVING DIRTY MUGS AND PLATES IN THE SINK!!!!!!!!”

Just like the Queen, Louis Catorze has multiple celebratory days which are all about him. In fact, he has more: 30th April (his birthday), the summer solstice (simply because he’s the Sun King), 14th July (la Fête Nationale, which is entirely the opposite of a salute to the monarchy but he’s claiming it anyway), 20th July (his moving-in day aka the Ascension to the Throne), 17th August (Black Cat Appreciation Day), 27th October (National Black Cat Day) and 31st October (Hallowe’en). However, this is by no means an exhaustive list and Catorze reserves the right to assert ownership of further days, as and when they take his fancy. In fact, when he sees the jubilee party taking place tomorrow afternoon in the park over the road, he will naturally assume that it’s all for him, whether we go or not.

Anyway, whilst the rest of TW8 celebrates the Queen, we will be celebrating the Sun King, and I’ve even bought my own, erm, alternative bunting for the occasion. I haven’t told Cat Daddy about it yet but, by the time this weekend is over, the whole street will know about it.

“Polite reminder: feed moi.”