I am currently trying to convince my humans about the merits of a medicinal sausage. Hector refused to listen to me, although I must say that the tiny terror seemed quite intrigued at the notion and stared thoughtfully out of the window for a little while before she scuttled off to find Hector, apparently armed with a brilliant idea.

I myself can see of no other ‘cure all’ remedy that is a patch on the noble sausage. The huge variety of these divine porksome nom noms, make it a joy to shop for. Sometimes I just waft down the aisle of our supermarket, tears of joy catching in my whiskers, glorying in the vast variety. Cumberland…Chipolata…Lincolnshire, it goes on and on. There will be a sausage perfect for any occasion…an occasional sausage if you will. Just think, if I could get my paws on my own sausage making device then I could produce them whenever the fancy took me! I persisted on this subject for quite some time as I knew there would be a definite market for this. In fact after casually mentioning this to my pals, I had already taken fourteen orders…seven of these were from Nelson.

However completely unmoved by my sound reasoning the human loons carelessly cast aside my hopes and dreams and refused to buy me the essential equipment needed. A Spindle however is that not easily put off, we are made of sterner stuff. When you have spent several hours engaged in a mental battle with an aerial squirrel you tend to have patience in bucketloads, and cramp in your hindquarters. So, like any self respecting hound would do, I decided to cobble one together myself. I flounced off, jaunty ears flapping, into my resting chamber, to flourish my quill and parchment and to begin to make haste with my porky plans.

I woke up the next morning and peered out of the curtain, It was raining – again. Not wanting to dirty the hem of my new crinoline on a soggy walk, I decided that today would be an excellent sausage making day. I had carefully gathered the ingredients that I would be needing for this culinary extravaganza, pork, breadcrumbs, and a selection of herbs I found in the back of the larder, and I was good to go.

I sipped my Earl Grey and considered my days plans with a steely determination. My reverie was interrupted by a timid knock at the door, I huffed, pushed my thinking bifocals onto my head and went to see what was going on. It was Nervous Norm our postman, clutching a box. I peered at the box and was very surprised to see that it was addressed to me! He handed it to me and sprinted away.

Elsie Esme Weatherwax Webb                                                                                                      AKA Spindlehound                                                                                                            Spindletowers                                                                                                                                    The Shire.

Well, dear reader, I could hardly believe it! I tore the paper open and there, laying before me was…my very own sausage making machine! I felt a burst of love towards the loons that I let live with me. They had seemingly forgiven me for my recent perceived misdemeanours involving the horse poo. I was so overcome I had to sit down and have a wee sherry. Actually, I had a wee sherry and then had a wee too.

Having gathered myself together some time later, I surveyed the kitchen, which was ready for the main event. The first job was to wrestle with the pork that Aberdeen Angus, Spindle Towers’ somewhat lively butcher had given me, into my new shiny machine to make it a suitable consistency for the purposes of stuffing.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Hector, noting the meaty wall splatterings with his gimlet eyed stare, ‘Mincing’ I replied, with a challenging raised eyebrow…there was a brief silence, and he cleverly chose not to respond, retreating to his garage. The garage by the way is packed full of the most peculiar things. An old armchair waiting to be re upholstered, his beloved 2CV, again, awaiting restoration, and his old Excelsior Consort (1954) awaiting resuscitation. 

It is at this point of the story that I would like to draw your attention to the subject of sausage casings. Well, what curious things they are! I carefully unwrapped the pack and peered at the contents. My mind was suddenly hijacked with memories of my brief dalliance with Alphonse Everready for some reason. I dabbed at my moistened eye with the lacy corner of my housecoat and pulled myself together. Unfurling the end of this strange thing, I gave it my full attention, cautiously flapping it about a bit (the casing, not Alphonse) I had examined the instructions very carefully whilst partaking in my sherry and attached the casings to the nozzle on my new shiny machine. I can’t deny dear reader, that I was very excited at this point. 

I am fairly tall but I had had to perch on a kitchen stool to allow proper purchase on my mincing. Once again I climbed onto the stool and readied myself for the finale. Sensing the excitement, the loons had decided to join me to watch, alongside Sister Josephine who had popped round for gin and gossip…no pressure there then. As they looked on, grinning at me, I began. 

Well! Who would have ever known that such a light touch of the paw would have been sufficient to get the ball rolling, or ‘sausage launched’ in this case. Thinking it was going to be quite difficult, and not wanting to be jeered at by my onlookers, I gave it all I had. The pork mixture was pushed into the casing with such force that on its exit, the lumpen sausage length shot vertically into the air. Shocked at this sudden and unexpected occurrence I stopped immediately to see it swinging limply from the end of the nozzle. Sister Josephine fainted. The loons exchanged looks. Again, my mind wandered back to Alphonse. 

It turns out that I think you have to have a certain turn of the paw to make sausages, and this may not be one of my natural callings. Several hours later I had managed to produce a five foot long, distended, misshapen porcine draught excluder. I had decided not to push my luck and attempt to divide it into the desired individual porky lengths. I stood back, paws on flanks, somewhat proud of the monster that I had created. Not as excited as Sister Josephine though, now fully recovered, was insisting on taking quite a lot of photos on her phone…