It was quiet in Felapton towers. Camestros was starring blankly into space muttering “heteroscedastic, heteroscedastic” in a monotone – a non-monotonic monotone but still a monotone.
Timothy sat in silence, but his silence was one of deep and unremitting anger. His gaze was fixed on a freshly delivered copy of the Bortsworth Gazette & Advertiser. He starred at it as if eyes emitted light – a fierce burning light that surely would ignite the paper if only he stared hard enough at the vile monstrosity that it was.
Eventually disturbed by the smell of ozone wafting from Timothy’s fur ,Camestros broke from the reverie and addressed the cat directly:
“Timothy I can feel the tension in your spine from over here in the adjacent room in which I’m sitting and which I should have mentioned earlier as I was establishing the setting of this story. What on earth is the matter?”
Camestros considered his words and realized that Timothy couldn’t possibly hear him as he was in a different room. He stood, opened the door and said:
“Timothy I can feel the tension in your spine from over there. What on earth is the matter?”
“This” said Timothy, his gaze unbroken towards the newspaper.
“This” he repeated, now weakly waving his front paw “this slanderous, malodorous insulting rag. This crime against the noble art of journalism. This inherently objectionable crime against veracity, truth, and exactitude. This…”
“Enough Timothy! I think I have understood that you are upset with the local papr again. What did they do this time? Fail to print your article on the metaphysics of Nigella Lawson?” Continue reading