Following my terrible weekend, I had a terrible Monday. Not surprising given the state of my current mooniverse and all that has recently changed, but this really has come as the crappy cheap catnip on top of the unravelling scratching post of my life.
This weekend was… a disaster. A ceremony the likes I have ever witnessed was thrown and I was cast aside by my own subjects in the process. They call it, a baby shower, but I know that what it really means is that they are preparing for the coronation of a new ruler. I should have known this day would come, where my apple shaped head and fuzzy backside were no longer cute enough to keep their fleeting attention, and yet I was not prepared.
Change is on the cold north wind that has seemingly come to stay in this part of the Great British nation for which my breed is so named, and I find myself at the heart of it, as ever watchful over bae.
Since the laser dot of the skies has finally relented in its scorching of the earth, things have returned to normal. I have taken up Baewatch once again, perching myself near the protective giant in question.
Today is the day hoomans call Boxing Day. Ironically enough, though not surprising, is the fact that they have no idea that the name boxing day in fact originates from the felines of the past. As I sit here, full from the many turkey snacks I have consumed, and quite content with watching the old one, or should I say, the one who looks quite prunish in complexion, sleep, I thought I would reminisce if you will about the origins of this holiday.