Femme Fatale From Fulham

Femme Fatale from Fulham


Now, ‘im at ‘ome, always sez, “nevva take a woman inta yer bed unless you
knows where she’s bin,’ which is all right for ‘umans, coz they ’as beds,
an they spects to be a good while on their backs, if you know wot I mean,
so beds makes sense.
But we ‘as to take advantage of the moment, we doesn’t get the chance to
sit about asking questions and checkin’ out the ‘istory of every female what
comes down our alley, does we? We sizes ‘em up and carpe diem, it’s over
in less time than it takes to open a winda and lob a bottle. We ‘as that timed
down to the second, else there’d be no kittens born nowhere in the Great
Metropo-lice. Disaster that.Bigger than floods an' famine, no cats.

But 'umans ‘as the nerve to complain ‘bout the racket we makes when we
goes about our procreatin’, which I’ll ‘ave you know we does as a special
favour to ‘umankind so’s we can cull them rats they keeps feedin’ and
fattenin’. Nevva mind our noise, wot about the noise of twenty windows
screechin open, and the filthy words wot comes out of them?
Puts us right off our stride, so lengthy courtin’ ain’t somefing we does
as a rule. But then there’s hexeptions to rules hain’t there? Has to be
hexeptions or yer can’t prove it can yer? And one of them hexeptions
‘appens now and then right down our alley.

Puzzabell she’s called...Feline Fatale of Fulham. Soft white fur from
tips of ‘er fluffy white ears, to tip of ‘er fluffy white tail. Walks wiv
a wiggle, glancin’ sideways now an’ then, but mostly jus’ pretendin’ she’s
out for a little stroll, when wot she really wants is a little roll, know
wot I mean?
But we all pretend right along wiv ‘er. She gets you like that.
Dunno why. Won all those medals at Crufts she ‘as, and ‘er nose is all
scrunched up posh like she doesn’t like the smell of our alley, but she
keeps coming down it for some reason, so it can’t smell that bad can it?

Like a bloody orchestra it is when Puzzabell goes walkabout. Vocals
from firty feline froats garnishing the midnight air wiv such ‘eartfelt
amorosity - it’s enuff to make yer fur stand on end wiv hanticipation.
Then the windas shoot up, screechin’like violins, the ‘umans are boomin’
and squallin’ like trombones and bagpipes, but best of all, is the tympani.
That’s me favourite section in an orchestra, specially on a cloudless night.
There’s a real clarity I always fink to the sound of a well-aimed brick ‘ittin’
a row of glass bottles in the dead of night. But there’s nuffin’, absolutely
nuffin, quite like the sound of a dustbin lid frown like a frisbee and ‘ittin’
the flanks of a randy cat.
Now that is class! Wiv a really good shot you gets
two sounds for the price of one: First off, there’s the dull thump like a single
drum beat, then an ‘alf beat pause as ripples of rage in ‘is froat roars like an
angry frog, twisting midair to a curdling catawaul wot’d make Pavarotti proud.
Goose bumps or wot? Brrr!

Guaranteed to raise the windas a second time is the dustbin lid cantata,
then comes a rousin’ chorus of ‘uman verbals screechin,
squallin and sqwarkin’ which takes it to a crescendo worthy of that Mr. Albert
‘All. It’s a ‘Land of ‘Ope and Fury’ all right when Puzzabell’s in town.

Puzzabell’s Proms we call ‘em. Everyone turns out for one of ‘er do’s.
But wot you ‘umans nevva get to see is the common or garden skullduggery
and skirmishin’ beneath the bushes, does yer? Scufflin’ and such, fightin’
fer prime position, wiv Puzzabell sitting in the middle of the rhododendron
ring. I’ll bet you’ve nevva seen a real cat fight ‘as yer?

We all sits round the edges of the ring, goading each other on, till one poor bugger
stalks into the centre, ‘ormones doin’ the okey cokey, fancying ‘is chances
with Puzzabell. She just sits there, cool as a cream cake, not even ‘er tail twitchin,
bathed in moonlight, baby blues blinkin and winkin like some sort
of secret signals, an’ then, jus’ when ‘e gets wivin reach, she does that
‘fing’ wiv ‘er tail... Must be the ‘quivalent of the Missus taking off ‘er
undies in front of ‘Im on a Saturday night, coz ‘E always gets distracted
at that point too.

Then she pounces all of a sudden, one in the eye!
Missus or Puzzabell, same difference.
Game over, bar the screechin.
‘Oo says ‘umans and cats aren’t alike?

Tried it once meself with Puzzabell. Now, I just watches the other buggers
wiv me one remainin’ eye. We ‘as more one-eyed cats down our alley than
is strickly speaking normal - even down the East End, but then we
hentertains a Femme Fatale from Fulham and you ‘as to pay fer a class act,
don’tcha?. Badge of honour that one eye. Bloody nuisance and all.
Wimmin!