Spindle Interrupted

Good evening and may I welcome you to another perambulation around my pointy head. Draw up a recliner and settle down for some sublime Spindle time. I will begin by offering you todays events at Spindle Towers.

As someone who would not be particularly inconvenienced by snow, indeed, someone whose life experience of snow peaked at the heady heights of 7 inches, the Tiny Terror absolutely loses her brown stuff at the mere suggestion that it is on its way. Living in  Southern England now though, it does not happen with the regularity that it did when she was an ankle biting Northerner. She remains hopeful however and haunts any weather website as the white stuff is apparently ‘magical and ethereal’. I disagree, as my experiences of snow are not as serene. Need I mention the troublesome habit of snow collecting in ones paw pockets. Or the ridiculous clothing I have to put on. It is agreed at Spindle Towers that I do not leave the confines of my duvet nest unless it is above freezing…and sometimes then only after a gently assisting ‘knee up the hindquarters’.

 The Tiny Terror (Muvver) had a phone vision chat with her dotty sister today, who was bouncing about with excitement as they, up t’North, were on a yellow weather warning for snow. We however are not. After the conversation ended she moped about the kitchen for an hour before deciding to cheer herself up. Still subdued, she donned the cape of consolation and shuffled off to her studio to draw some bats. Finally, I was then left in peace to contemplate life.

I had decided to give my head noodles an airing, well not so much an airing and more like a vigorous work out. I pondered and extended a nimble limb, and whilst nibbling daintily on my toenail, it came to me in a flash – I would write a novel! This would give me a new purpose which I wholeheartedly need. This was an important moment and in reverence to it I put down my biscuit. I suddenly envisaged myself reclining on a chaise longue, entirely bedecked in pale pink, a feather boa, rouged cheeks and a jewelled turban.

My reverie was shattered with a thunderous knocking at the door which indicated the ever exuberant arrival of Nelson, keeper of my heart and all round lolloping darling-chops. He bounced in through the door, clutching a gold edged envelope in his furry mitt. Initially I thought that he had a glitzy court summons, but it turned out to be something altogether more exciting!

It was an invitation to Lady Hester and Miss Harriet Arbuthnot’s forthcoming marriage! We knew that they had been enjoying a certain romantic understanding, as myself and Nelson were also slowly colliding towards, but we were rather surprised at the speed of acceleration…however we were comparing it to us…our pace was more glacial. 

The loved up pair met in rather an odd setting a few months ago. Lady Hester and Camilla were out replenishing their stock of gin when they had a slight collision in Waitrose’ car park between the Bentley and a 2CV. The owner of the 2CV stuck her head out of the window and accused Lady H of being a “mewling, flap mouthed strumpet”. Incandescently irked as one would be, Lady H put down her sausage roll, passed Camilla her handbag and exited the car for a fracas. However somewhere, violins played and a cherub skewered them both with the same arrow.

Lady Hester, one of Nelson’s failed romantic endeavours, remains good friends with us and we often bump into them at various social soirees. She is usually guzzling special brew out of her slingback by the end of the night, which is when we help her into a taxi.

This was indeed happy news, however before we even begin to think about the wedding day, we have the hen night, Nelson being an honorary hen. Not at all perturbed by this, he clapped his paws together in glee and started to plan his outfit. This hen night has the additional bonus that both brides will be present and all in all it promises to be a bit of a hoot! The evening is to be in The Giddy Kipper, a lovely little pub, neatly positioned a mere scamper away from Lady Hester’s picturesque cottage. Camilla has promised to be the door woman, content with an evenings’ supply of cigars and a copy of Llama Weekly.

By now all thoughts of my novel had gone and I furtively swept aside my toenail nibblings and poured out a cup of Earl Grey for Nelson and myself, as we argued about our proposed sartorial choices.

Until next time, dearest pals.



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