My name is Kitkat, inviting you to an evening in my club, also called the Kitkat Club. Cheesy I know.
We are well hidden in an abandoned cellar in the corner of a private garden in Kensington and Belgravia. The club boasts a bistro serving titbits to our clients (who pay an entry fee) served on shiny plates. Scattered around are large cushions, against the walls, and small troughs full of small fish collected from gardens nearby for our clients to nibble on.
My pride and joy is our bar. We serve fish head delight, steak surprise, salmon solution. Our strongest have a healthy dose of catnip to relax everyone. There’s cream, still water, and bubbly water with just a pinch of catnip as the bubbles go to their head and things get silly.
My doormen are the Ronnie and Scott Maine-Coon brothers. They keep out the riff raff and collect the entry fees. Tonight, we have a special treat as the new girl on the block is a shiny black Spyynx called Cleo with her band the Laine Mau brothers. They recently arrived from Egypt.
Our clientele are the elite of all pedigree lines. Our oldest member is a Russian Blue of dubious blood lines called Bassie who assures us of his nobility; a harmless old gent, as long as we limit his bubbly water and catnip.
Cleo saunters onto our small stage in a golden harness and headdress. Eyes light up at such a tasty piece. She begins to sing smooth and deep like a dollop of cream. Purring was the only other sound to be heard. Her set was a triumph catcalling applause.
Suddenly hissing and spitting, and a fight going on. Bassie staggers out with a bloody nose and tufts of fur missing.
Ronnie grabs Bassie saying, ”I will take the silly old tom home; shove him through his door to sleep it off. Been at the bubbly water again, probably with an extra dose of catnip.’
An hour to calm Cleo down, promising it won’t happen again. To be honest she looks unharmed, a smirk on her face.
”Grew up in the back streets of Luxor. I can care for myself and my boys.”
The rest of the evening goes quietly, most cats drifting home about 5am for a sleep. A few hours’ sleep on the club cushions, then I’m off to a club in Chelsea to exchange our treats for a strong blend of catnip. Then a quick bit of fishing and the days are my own. You may wonder how all this came about. Well, I am a Bengal, my serfs left me to fend for myself when they were evicted from their home. So, a couple of weeks scavenging led to this cellar and the rest is history.
Hope you’ve enjoyed your evening and good night.
I’ll take him home the silly old mog and shove him through his door.
