Under Cuddles, one

There is a wasp at my window. Look at it hovering, first left, then right. The window is open. It ventures towards the gap, drifting ever closer. It lands on the window sill and crawls forwards, its little antennae waving with hysterical glee. WHAM! The window slams shut. Iain Banks ain’t got nothing on me.

So, as the last of the summer’s insect population are driven to extinction, I thought now would be an appropriate time to speak of another menace I long desire to see squashed under the window frame of life. I am talking, of course, of the Union, an insidious organisation plotting to centralise all control under its iron fist. Now, I am no stranger to iron fists – ever since the accident of 2006, I have been in possession of a prosthetic iron paw – but even I baulk at the lengths to which this Union is going to ensure that its dominance of our fair city is secure.

With its layers and layers of bureaucracy, bound together by a red tape so thick, that Alexander the Great himself which have a hard time untangling it, the Union is paralysing all efforts at independent thought. Normally, I would be in favour of such actions – as I was telling Willibee just the other day over brunch – but I cannot condone it when it is aimed in my direction.

I propose, therefore, a secession from the Union. We must unite to set up our own Confederation. We shall stand for Freedom, Peace and the right to squash all insect life that attempts to enter my office. Oh, and regular gin martinis.

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