‘Tis the season…

… for huge electricity bills.

And nightmares about lurid displays of flashing lights.

Fat Cows. Who else?

They´ve excelled themselves this time. They truly have. As hard as I try, I just can not comprehend how they´ve managed to translate the festive motto of ‘good will to all men´ as meaning the time had come to turn their front yard into a neon lit, Christmas themed spectre of hell. It´s so bright and so hideous that they even made the front of the local paper. Somehow, in light of the never ending stream of gawking public that cruise past at night, I suspect that the headline wasn´t, ‘Outbreak of Crass Americanism in Suburban London´, as, really, it should have been.

Every night… Every fucking night since the first of December, they´ve turned it on and cranked up the volume (oh yes, this version of hell has a soundtrack of decidedly raucous and decidedly tasteless Christmas carols) the *second* the sun goes down.

I think Chris has all but moved into Sam´s. This, of course, annoys me incredibly. Being the fair and generous sort of cat that I am, I´m of the ‘suffer and suffer alike´ school of thought. The way I see it, if I´m suffering from DVD perfect nightmares of Father Christmas being stoned to death with Guinness cans, in time to ‘Jingle Bells´, then Chris should be as well.

But no. Mr ‘I´m So Tough, I´m a CI5 Agent And I Can Fly Fighter Planes´ has bailed on me.

Wimp.

He materialises around lunch time -- in order to feed me and deposit yet more presents under the tree -- when hell is deceptively calm in the dull light of day, and expects me to be pleased to see him. Pah. Yeah, *right*. Yesterday I hid and made him late as he searched the house for me. I only came out to grace him momentarily with my presence when he got *exactly* the right plaintive tone to his voice. "*Mishy*! Come on! Where *are* you?" Then I only stalked past him, on my way to the cat door and ensured that he got a good view of my retreating backside.

Stuff him!

And, while I´m at it, stuff Sam as well!

It´s his fault anyway, Scrooge that he is. Chris wanted to beat the Fat Cows at their own game and light up our yard (his vision was truly... *spectacular*), but Sam wouldn´t let him. Not even pouting helped his cause. Cajoling, whining and attempting to bribe failed as well. I can now accept with ease the ‘first time for everything´ saying. Now, please don´t think for a second that I´m of the opinion that sinking to our neighbours base level would have been a *good* thing, but at least that way I´d have company. Still, Chris should have known he was fighting a losing battle. Particularly after it took the big guns, a pout reiterated by arms folded across the chest, to convince Sam that, seeing as it was his apartment, he was *going* to have a live Christmas trees, and that was all there was to it.

"But they´re messy," reasoned Sam.

"Don´t care," shrugged Chris.

"No. You wouldn´t. It´s not like you´re the one who´s going to have to clean up after it," grumbled Sam.

"My apartment. My money. My tree," declared Chris, pouting.

"Possessive little thing, aren´t you?" queried Sam, his eyes glowing with that ever so familiar look.

"Mmm… Very..." murmured Chris, knowing full well that he´d won and grabbing Sam by the tie. "*Mine*."

They didn´t even bother taking their final negotiations into the bedroom and set about ironing out all the details then and there on the sofa.

With the benefit of hindsight, I have to say that, for once, I actually agree with Sam. Not only does said tree drop things everywhere, but it smells funny and, well, it´s never really been the same since Jojo mistook the base of it for kitty litter… Anyway, although it took him a good three hours to decorate it to his taste (his mottos appearing to be, ‘if it´s shiny, stick it there´ and ‘the more the merrier´), Chris doesn´t even hang around long enough to appreciate the damn thing. As for me, I really couldn´t care less about it. I derived, oh, maybe twenty seconds of inane pleasure from playing with the tinsel but I´m already over that stage of my life.

Some of the presents piled underneath it seem reasonable though. I like to sit on them. Especially the ones that are for Sam. In the spirit of the season, I think it´s only right that he gets some of my fur clinging to his wrapping paper. One present even has my name on it but, really, Chris is just wasting his time. If he thinks one measly present, and it looks suspiciously like a tin of cat food (yee-ha, *lucky* me), is going to make me forgive him for abandoning me, then he´s got another thing coming. Right now, with the degree of tetchiness that I´m feeling, it´s going to take a lifetimes supply of fresh salmon, *and* double thick cream, for him to be in my good books again.

It´s just not good enough. He should be here with me. Leaving me all alone simply isn´t right. Even Jojo´s retreated to the furthest corner of the cemetery and only ventures to see me during daylight hours. He´s invited me to join him, but… Better the devil you know. Here at least I can bury myself in the duvet when it all gets too much for me. Besides, after Halloween I´m still just a tad wary about the cemetery at night. While I´ve pretty much come to terms with the concept of vampires, I simply don´t want to run into that idiot called Mulder again. The Goddess alone knows what useless information he´d see fit to share about Christmas.

Feeling depressed, and therefore vaguely masochistic, I slink out of my cat door and make my way to the front yard. It´s Christmas Eve. I haven´t seen Chris all day, I´m alone and the House of Fat Cow festive light show is in full swing. So, what else have I got to do with my time? Sighing, I jump up onto the fence and perch myself at the best vantage point to see not only the… display… but also the passing parade of voyeuristic white trash as well. Snotty nosed children clad in pyjamas and tartan dressing gowns, yowling with terminal Christmas cheer and running rings around their parachute tracksuited parents (complete with fluffy slippers and cans of lager -- it´s somewhat hard to differentiate between the hims and the hers…), simply can not be beat for voyeuristic self flagellation.

If I´m going to depress myself to this degree, I might as well do a good job of it. Maybe if I stare at Rudulph´s flashing nose long enough I might hypnotise myself into believing that this isn´t really happening.

Oh. What wonderful timing I have. Someone should tell Mr Fat Cow that Father Christmas costumes are not, as a rule, made of lycra. Last time I looked, the hairy old man didn´t wear a cod piece either… And he *certainly* doesn´t get around the North -- South, whatever -- Pole wearing Puma trainers. What a… sight… Words fail me.

And now my stomach wants to fail me as well…

*Fabulous*.

Madam Bovine in a red velvet mini… tent… and candy striped stockings. Well I never! How positively Christmassy! Drinking tequila straight from the bottle. *Tasteful*. Even the blissfully dead worm manages to look mortified as it travels ever closer to the cave of doom.

Oh…

Please. No. Don´t.

‘Deck The Halls´ is annoying enough (particularly for approximately the nine millionth time in twenty-four days) without the Bovine Choir slurring their way over the top of it. "Theck the thalls in bowels of lollies". Indeed. Why didn´t I think of that?

Oh…

While I´m wallowing in the realms of my own stupidity, why didn´t I ever think of attempting to do a *jig* to it as well? Silly me!

The audience of inbreds love it. Morons. They clap and cheer and salivate and prove the theory of evolution… Quite frankly it wouldn´t surprise me if some of them were *still* attempting to work out how get their knuckles off the ground.

I´m so transfixed by this spectacle that I´m unaware that a car has pulled up until I hear it´s tyres squealing as it makes an exceptionally quick getaway. Tearing my attention away from the Bovine Waltz (the time honoured dance of the inebriated), I look to the street just in time to see the tail lights of a black cab disappearing into the blackness. I´ve barely ascertained this when the front gate is pushed open and two bodies stagger and weave their way through it.