My Life is a Feast – King of my table

I am King.  Or, rather I am King of my own table.  I even went and drew the word King on a cardboard crown I made.  And with Cat as my right-hand man, I must chew my way through this feast I sit at, day and night, day and night….  Chef Fate keeps sending dish by dish of food to my table – some of them lovely, some of them quite distatsteful, yet I cannot turn them away and I most certainly am not allowed a view of what is going on in the kitchen.

As for the guests at my table… I have a question – Who on earth invited them?  Some of them come and go,  some of them stay forever, and some of them were at the table before I even appeared at the double doors and made my entrance.  Some I like, some I don’t like. Like or no like though, I don’t always have control of who gets to join me at, or indeed leave, my feast.  My table.  My cat does a good job at scrutinizing them though.  And it is always by people’s reactions, or the cat’s reaction, that I am able to deduce what is the meaning of these guests.  Why are they here?  Why won’t they go?  What do they represent in the context of my life?  All I can say is, eating a meal is a thing of progress.  Progress is welcome at my table.  Those guests that would prefer to sit in the shadows and not take part well – I’m always wary of them.  Also, sometimes even the guests who guzzle and guzzle greedily, I’ll always be wary of them too.  There’s those who don’t get enough, and there’s those who take too much.

There is a pea, it is stuck forever in a crack in one of the long oaken slats that my table is made of.  I forget from time to time what the pea means, but it is for me and me only.  Dishes come and go, guests come and go, and that pea stays.  It is for me, I’m sure.  The pea of appeasement, for now.  One day, I’ll be able to reach it and pick it out.  One day.





My Life is a Feast – What the Cat said

I normally plant a kiss on his head, as he is more than a cat, he is my friend in this life.  For so long I’ve listened to everything that my cat told me.  Well, it’s not that it actually talked.  It’s just that I get a notion from it, what is ‘liked’, and what is ‘disliked’.  Typing is a crime – that’s one notion I’ve gleaned.  Be a good old-fashionder and just put pen to paper – so says my cat who sits so nicely composed in his quiet spot, warm, by the window where the light streams in, probably thinking.  I know my cat well.  Every mannerism, quirk of the ears, slight flick of the tail, contented slow wink of the eyes, and more than that I also know his personality – what makes him happy: play-time with the ribbon outside, or running up the stairs after snacks thrown up to the landing (my way of getting the cat to exercise whilst eating), and what makes him scared or bothered: which would be people or other animals stomping in and about the house.  He respects me; I respect him.  We give each other a good cuddle every now and then & we also give each other our space. He sits on my right hand side, of the my table.  In his box, filled with straw. This is not just my cat, my friend, this is my right hand man.  And woe the day that he leaves this table that I must feast at all the time.  Yes, my Life is a Feast. And Fate is the Chef.  And the cat is with me through this, I hope.