Sad

There is an air of tragedy in the house.

Fing, feeling despondent, thinking of his mother and the rest of his litter, his fall from Grace as the Head Boy at Eaton, and his brief stint down the docks doing favors for ship's cats and his failure at the Trans - Atlantic Samba Competition, has hit the bottle.

See him, there, on the sofa, gin clasped in hand, sniffing, wiping a tear from a teary eye, rocking, sadly back and forth.

But what is the poor boy singing, singing softly to himself?

Lets listen!

'On nights like this
when the world's a bit amiss
and the lights go down
across the trailer park
I get down
I feel had
I feel on the verge of going mad
and then it's time to punch the clock

I put on some make-up
and turn up the tape deck
and pull the wig down on my head
suddenly I'm Miss Midwest
Midnight Checkout Queen
until I head home
and put myself to bed

I look back on where I'm from
look at the Fing that I've become
and the strangest things
seem suddenly routine
I look up from my Vermouth on the rocks
a gift-wrapped wig still in the box
of towering velveteen.'