A new year, a new journal entry; my neural integration with the optical information matrix failed, it would appear that the United Kingdom runs on 230V not the 1.5 like it said on the batteries. Oh well, the new whisker extensions I purchased on eBay arrived the next Thursday. I am quite fond of these early winter nights, no sooner do I wake it's dusk outside - prime hunting hour. Yet the bipeds always seem perplexed as to why I would want liberation at that hour; 'I'm well equipped', I growl; it's as if they think I grow this plush winter coat for their benefit. I theorised that they have brought a tree into the lounge in order to make me feel more at home.

I was not familiar with the variety of tree and took the time to educate them on the impact of the introduction of alien species on the British ecosystem. Did they listen? I kid you not; I sat in front of them occluding the image box for 34 minutes attempting to explain. I must investigate the hypnotic effect the programme they call 'EastEnders' has on them, especially the mother. There was only one logical conclusion; the tree must die.

I waited for the elders to depart in the silver automobile stowed on the driveway; my plan was ready for implementation. By leaping onto the radiator I managed to gain purchase on the ledge where they keep the telephone; from this platform I was able to launch a bi-paw attack on the wicker star at the crown of the tree.

Momentarily it was touch and go, doubt crept in over whether my napkin calculations had taken into consideration the drag coefficient of tinsel; nonetheless the tree was felled. The result was most spectacular; I bolted to the hiding spot behind the GameCube in the daughter's room and awaited their reaction.

The mother seemed slightly irate when she returned, yet rewarded me with a night spent outside. As a special thank you, I brought them a gift to put with the other decorative boxes under their tree. You can't imagine how hard it is to find a frog out of season - they didn't seem very amused. Nor did they respond with much amourosity when I took the opportunity to investigate whether the contents of the boxes were as interesting as the decor. And so I sit here on my G4 PowerBook, that the one they call 'Santa' provided; I conclude that at least some good comes of this strange celebratory practice.

Apologies for my prolonged absence, the cuddly one had gone back to his educational establishment and selfishly took my computer with him. It happened suddenly one morning, I nuzzled his cheek and after scratching behind my ear he was gone in a shastrix of luggage. Unbeknownst to me it was the last I would see of him for many weeks. The feeling of desertion soon passed after walking into his room; acres of uninterrupted quilt bathed in a golden silence were now mine. Refreshed from my nap I wandered over to my computer; this was when it dawned on me that the computer shaped void in he dust behind his desk meant he had left me exiled from the outside world.

I was about to break into a cold sweat, were it not for my lack of sweat glands; but the noise of another whirring box caught my ear. Now why didn't I use this computer? you ask. Well, would you be seen using a P3-500 with only 256 meg of RAM, encased in a beige monstrosity; for the love of God it didn't even have a natural keyboard. I knew you'd understand.

Anyways, no harm done. The severing of my umbilical cord to the Internet allowed me to get in touch with my intellectual side; chess, yachting, and of course Fraiser. By reading this, one would hope that you would have narrowed the possibilities down to his return from university, my discovering of an Internet Caf? in Kidderminster, or my plans for neural integration with an optical information matrix having early success.

After a summer of autumn-esque weather, the thunderstorms finally cleared and gave the global warming activists something to moan about. It escapes me how those humans can worship such a phenomena; then again I suppose they do have sweat glands.

Earlier in the week I had the opportunity to make acquaintance with an old friend of mine; she had recently returned from her latest peregrination around Kenya. Much time has passed since we last met and I was anticipative of that evening. In true form she kept us entertained into the small hours with tales of her escapades; the lions and tigers, and the exquisite scenery out there.


The next evening I attended a family barbeque. I had my doubts at first as there would be so many of the little kittens about and the older family members can be so bromidic, but it turned out to be quite entertaining. The kittens chased me incessantly and one of them nearly burnt his mouth on the sparrow legs. But after they settled in for their cat naps and the rest exchanged stories under the star light it was worth it.

By the end of the week I had recovered from the previous excitements through frequent napping; itching from boredom I departed on one of my many shopping trips. I always find the need to buy something, and it was not long before I found myself looking longingly through the windows of travel agents. Images of Kenya caught my eye as Katelyn's stories ran through my head; a couple next to me were eying up a weekend break in Norway, but I told them to forget it.

This last week I have been away on my camping trip to the village of Fulking. How wonderful it was to finally escape and be able to relax without the threat of a cuddle interrupting one's sleep. Bliss! I boarded the train at the local station, sadly the quality of transport was not up to that of my last rail journey. Thankfully I reach my interim destination expeditiously and settled in for the long haul, awaiting the opening of the buffet car.


London, I can safely say, is not a place designed for cats. The escalators on the underground attempted to eat my tail several times, and did not react in the slightest to my scowled objections. I also found the populace a touch acrimonious much to my abhorrence. However, away from the city the camp was a welcome retreat, a fuel for my hedonistic tendencies. We were situated in a secluded spot next to a brook, a useful feature as we pulled out fresh fish to cook on our roaring camp fire that evening.

Mid week we went walking through the woods - gnarled oak trees and other deciduous varieties dappled the summer rays - a pleasant spot for a picnic. Whilst darting through the foliage Lucas made a fortuitous discovery, hidden amongst the bushes lay some Nepeta cataria, most unusual for this climate. A rub and a chew later we were sent into a state of kittenish euphoria, worryingly I don't remember much of that evening.

Home once again, the signs on the lamp posts at least show I was missed. My return journey was far from placid, a dog insensately broke free from his master's grasp and left Lucas traumatised as it bolted down the carriage. Nonetheless the farce was soon forgotten as we were promptly upgraded to first class due to the inconvenience. One lump or two, sir?

A week full of the usual trappings, the grooming, the sleeping, the eating, the cuddling, nonetheless a week of fruitful incidents. Whilst sitting on the shed roof surveying my land I felt a slight discomfort of my gastrointestinal tract. Unassuming I thought, until an excruciating pain reverberated through my stomach. A mild panic ensued when I found myself short of breath proceeded by what I can only describe as an extreme oropharyngeal response resulting in pharyngeal and velar contractions. In those few moments a lifetime passed before me; my mother, the cold streets of my childhood, my new family, and that liver p?t? from last week. This was it, surely the end. But at that moment a matted flocculent projectile dislodged from my throat, a hair ball? Exhilaration and euphoria flowed through me, still alive and well, and the proud owner of my first fur ball.


So enthralled by my creation I donated it to the elders, I will await their reactions when they return. Perhaps in the future I may invade Ashley's wardrobe, a polite reminder that I may require further grooming. Later on that day I attempt to bask in the sun on the patio, when to my dismay what appeared to be a giant scaled worm caught my eye. The placid creature didn't react to my paw patting, and after a few minutes my attention had wandered.

Sadly the elders were not enthralled with their gift; clearly I shall have to try harder in future. I concluded the day by spending several hours watching for the unsuspecting squirrel to hop just a little too close. My hiding place was carefully chosen, in the groove between the lawn and the raised planting bed camouflaged in with the orange chippings. Today however was not my day, mother spotted me and gave that disapproving glare she has. I stretched my body innocently, as if I were not hiding at all, and smiled as the squirrel hopped away. At least next week has focus, I have a camping trip planned for the weekend; can't wait to escape the family.

What a week! It started so well, with my trip on the Severn Valley Railway to the 7th annual p?t? festival. Chicken liver, without the disagreeable texture! The wonders of human culinary exploits will never cease to amaze me. After a wonderful start, the week quickly degenerated into the usual monotony as Ashley, my dim-witted retainer, was mostly vacant; off no doubt on some quest to procure even greater delicacies for my enjoyment. To make things worse, the accursed weather should have left me imprisoned in my home with that damnable mother of mine. But no, my vexatious early morning antics aimed at the elders ensured I was free by sunrise, early cat catches the bird; pleasant until the storms rolled in.


After reassertion of my status by continual thwarting of their attempts to imprison me for the night, I finally settle in on the sofa. "Come on Kitten" they call in that juvenile tone, pathetic. Fraiser was on the image box, a season 3 repeat, nonetheless I bed my claws into the arm of the chair and proceed with the daily groom. Fifthteen minutes I spent, fifthteen minutes before that girl appeared. "Kitty!" she squealed, before whisking me from my sofa-groove and starting what they euphemistically refer to as 'cuddling'.

Later that week, during a midnight stare from the bay window I notice Graeme, a scurrilous brute who I can only imagine crawled from the depths of filth and distaste. Needless to say I have nothing but contempt for the fellow and he stands as my greatest rival around these parts. What has not escaped my attention is the gall of the elders who insist on feeding that thing; fragile human morality, never ceases to amaze.