tartan bunker

We’re in London during the week, in ma wee flat above the shop at Dekaydence hq. Catflaps back and front so MacMog comes and goes as he pleases: I ask no questions; MacMog tells me no lies. But this past few weeks, he’s been tearing back in as though all four horsemen of the Apocalypse and Lassie are after him. The reason? Squawking robins at the back, assuming he’s after their young; and likewise, at the front, dive-bombing blackbirds. How come they don’t they realise that MacMog is well passed fighting for a mcmorsel of fledgeling and prefers chilling out in the sunshine? I see a lot of unnecessary creature stress and wonder who’s implementing God’s plan? Now, if Dekaydence got control . . .