Friday 13th

What a start to the day.

Woken up early by all the screaming and crashing from the (Wo)Manse across the way.

Drayton Parslow, to prove to his followers that all superstition is rubbish, was deliberately walking under a ladder.

But it was a remarkable piece of bad luck. Our Beaker Black Cat, Grendel, seems to have figured out how to use the ladder to go after the birds on the roof. Disturbed by the loud singing of "To be a Pilgrim" from below, Grendel did what any self-respecting Beaker cat would do and threw himself off the ladder and onto Drayton's head.

Now, I didn't realise about Drayton. That's a superbly realistic toupee he's been wearing all these years. Next thing they know, Draton's sat on the ground clutching a lacerated chrome-dome while Grendel's killing his syrup. Drayton staggers up and chases after the cat, thus drawing Grendel's Mother into the affair and Drayton's got one cat eating his wig while the other goes for his ankles. Eventually he fled into the house crying "Vanity, vanity."

So a nice start to Friday 13th I reckon. Drayton's gonna have to spend some time living this one down.  But I'm opening up the Beaker Bazaar early so the Funambulist Baptists can buy their heather, vegan rabbit-effect feet and Traditional Beaker 4-leaved Clovers. It's an ill wind, I reckon.