Larry, The Downing Street Cat - Midweek Madness

Just an update from the tropical republic formerly known as London, where the heat continues with the sort of grim determination usually associated with sieges and tax audits. It is still blisteringly hot, which means I remain confined indoors, stretched out on the coolest patches of floorboards like an exhausted tiger in a minor provincial zoo. Thankfully, Downing Street is blessed with thick walls, shaded corners, and an ample supply of sympathy from the staff, though not, alas, competence. My chef has now taken to serving what he proudly calls “Chilled Wet Food” for breakfast. This sounds, I think we can agree, like something one might encounter in a Scandinavian prison. The reality is that he simply removes a tin from the fridge and leaves it sitting about for ten minutes before presenting it to me with the air of a Michelin-starred restaurateur unveiling a signature dish. It is edible enough, cool, damp, faintly fishy, though hardly the sort of thing likely to have judges weeping softly into their napkins. One feels less “pampered feline companion” and more “elderly spaniel at a budget seaside hotel.” Meanwhile, my manservant’s premiership continues to wobble about like a shopping trolley with a defective wheel following the catastrophic local and devolved election results earlier this month. There is now much muttering in corridors, grave nodding from people carrying folders, and endless television appearances by men in ties explaining that things are “challenging,” which in political language usually means somebody has begun quietly measuring the curtains for your replacement. The so-called “King of the North,” Andy Burnham, has been out campaigning with the tireless enthusiasm of a man auditioning for a role he very much hopes will become vacant soon. He has been shaking hands, kissing babies, and listening intently to voters describe the collapse of public services while maintaining the fixed expression of a man simultaneously calculating polling data. But the chief irritation for my manservant this week appears to be a fellow named Tony Blair. Personally, I had never heard of him, though I have seen photographs of him lurking about the place looking smooth and faintly managerial, like the regional director of a successful carpet retailer. Apparently, he was once a very large cheese indeed. Mr Blair has accused Keir’s government of lacking a “coherent plan” for the country and of introducing policies that have discouraged business — criticisms involving workers’ rights, oil and gas, wages, and other such human complications which I confess I find difficult to follow. Politics always seems to involve enormous numbers of people speaking urgently about things that never result in anyone receiving tuna. As for me, I remain gloriously detached from the whole affair. So long as my tuna sandwiches arrive on schedule, my iced water is replenished several times a day, and nobody attempts to dress me in commemorative neckwear, I am perfectly content to let the world stumble on as it always has: noisily, pointlessly, and several degrees too warm. #cats #tuna #cutecats #animals #pets #larrythecat