Krampus Christmas

Howdy folks!

  So, boys and girls, were we all well-behaved throughout 2010? And did we all survive Krampusnacht without severe psychological or physical trauma? Krampusnacht? I hear you cry. What on earth is that? Well I did some roving reporting to answer that question, and here's what I discovered.

Scary

   Before the bearded fat bloke in a red suit, more commonly known as Santa Claus, started coming down our chimneys every December, folk were visited by St Nicholas. Every year, on 6th December, St Nicholas would visit bringing a sack load of toys and gifts for the townsfolk. A routine that wasn't all that different from Santa Claus. 

    These days, Christmas Eve involves bribing Santa with mince pies and brandy, maybe a carrot or two for the reindeer - an evening that forms happy Christmas memories for many children. And in theory, when Santa visits, the boys and girls who have misbehaved during the year may receive only a lump of coal, (or a potato if they're lucky), as a sign of Santa's disapproval.  No huge trauma, (though, of course, not getting the Xbox or Sylvanian family that you've desperately coveted, is indeed a distressing disappointment.) But, and especially if you're still weeping into last year's wrapping paper that contained your annual Christmas jumper, spare a thought for those whose seasonal rituals involve a visit from the Krampus. 

    The Krampus was St Nicholas's sidekick who traditionally visited on 5th December, otherwise known as Krampusnacht, (Krampus night). The Krampus, sometimes known as the Pelzebock or Schmutzli, was a devilish creature with goat horns and cloven hoofs, rattling chains and bells wherever he went.  It seems that his only purpose in life was to terrify the local children into being well-behaved, and punish those who have ignored the previous year's warning. If the children hadn't been 'good', like his later counterpart Santa, St Nick would only give a gift of coal or vegetables, and we don't want that... especially when there are limited edition coloured Wii consoles on sale. 

Less scary

     So, as the night of Krampus began, the Krampus would chase children through the streets, sometimes beating them with chains and sticks. Those children that really had been utterly awful during the year were bundled into the basket on the back of the Krampus, and supposedly carried away back to the fiery underworld. I can only assume that ultimately their fate was unpleasant, to say the least.

  After discovering all this information on traditions from another time and place I was, understandably, curious to meet the Krampus for myself. Not knowing exactly where Krampuses/Krampi, hang out when they're not terrifying women and children, I sent out a message to my underworld contacts. I know that this is all very cloak and dagger, and I can't reveal my sources, but a meeting was soon arranged.

  

   Three days later, inside a gentleman's smoking club, I met my first Krampus over a glass or two of brandy. As I sat in my, very comfortable, winged leather seat, I concede that initially I was a little startled by the Krampus's rugged appearance. He may have been wearing a very smart pinstripe suit and tie, and his horns were clean and polished; but it was impossible to ignore that he was exceptionally hairy, and he dribbled every time he spoke. And, if I'm brutally honest, he also smelt somewhat like a farmyard bonfire, a smell that no cologne on earth could mask. But his manner was very pleasant and accommodating, and as a result I soon adjusted to the company of my unusual interviewee. Although he was originally from mainland Europe, Klaus the Krampus spoke exceptionally good English.

Klaus, out finishing the last of his Christmas shopping

    "Christianity aside, the main problem is that, generally speaking, children just aren't scared of me anymore," said Klaus. Before continuing he took a long drag on the cigar that was wedged between his cloven hooves. "I can growl all I like, and to them I'm still just a hairy goat with bells on.

   "I'd given my all to this job, so it was hard for me to accept that my unpopularity had waned. At first it was soul destroying. This loss of direction and purpose in life led me into a very dark place. I was in a state of despair and drinking too much. But the fact remained - these days children see far scarier things than me on Saturday night television. Chasing them with chains and bells is entirely futile when they just ridicule you with their laughter. 

   "But, after some considerable thought, I now accept that, when they spent a large proportion of their lives playing shoot 'em up games on their games consoles, the youth of today aren't going to be overly concerned by me brandishing a handful of birch twigs. They just think I'm a psychiatric patient who is keen on fancy dress...and there's no coming back from that.

   "It's a consumer driven world, a world in which I'm redundant...I mean, these days it's even frowned upon to leave lumps of coal as gifts to demonstrate our disapproval of current behavioral standards. As the earth slowly overheats, we can't be seen to be encouraging the use of fossil fuels."

  

     Having been in employment for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years, I was curious to know how Klaus now spent his Decembers. Despite having sampled the finest of brandies with him, a subject on which he was very knowledgeable, I was still surprised by how civilised his reply was.

   

    "Oh, I'm lucky as I have many interests....Over the years I've had many offers to do pantomime, but that would mean I'd be busy right through into the new year. I have a deep passion for the opera and ballet, and now that I'm not working every December I'm, at last, able to attend seasonal performances. I'd hate to miss those annual treats for the sake of a pantomime with Barbara Windsor. 

   "And, as long as they've behaved throughout the year, like most other people, I like to spend December purchasing gifts for my nearest and dearest. However, I do try to avoid buying socks and jumpers." In a tone that suggested he was resigned to his current circumstances, Klaus continued, "I guess it's a case of 'if you can't beat them, (which I can't as beating children is now frowned upon) then I may as well join them in the shopping frenzy and max out my credit card in Topman."

 As Klaus poured another brandy, I then asked the old goat what had become of his friend, St Nicholas?

   "He's still quite bitter about the arrival of Santa Claus, whom he calls 'The Imposter'. He put him out of work so it's understandable. He now lives in a retirement home for legendary historical figures. I can't tell you too much about it, for obvious reasons, but it's somewhere in Eastbourne. He shares a room with Merlin the magician. They have a great time together, causing mischief, so I think, despite his misgivings, he's been enjoying his enforced retirement. I try and visit him a few times a year, but I always make sure that I'm there over December 5th & 6th. We chase the staff around the building, just for a laugh. It's like the good old days."

   These days, where the Krampus is still celebrated, (sometimes) drunken adults dress like satanic goats, carrying flaming torches as they cavort through the streets, scaring, and probably scarring, the local children, as they birch them with twigs...but I sure would have liked to have seen Klaus himself in his full regalia...As long as I'd been a good boy all year, that is.

And now I will leave you with footage of a recent Krampusnacht parade...

And on that dark note, I'm off for a bath,

Regards to you all,

Frank 

x

Her name was Lola...

Howdy folks,

  In the summer of 1943 I was back in the U.S.A. staying with my favourite aunt, Jessica. I had a job in Boothbay Harbor helping the fishing trawlers unload when they returned from their fishing trips. As a result of my summer job, I smelt pretty darn awful pretty much all of the darn time. The smell of the sea seemed to burrow into the nooks and crannies of my bones. No amount of soap and water seemed to rid my personage of the unpleasant aroma. The only way for me to smell delightful was for me to stay away from work for at least a week, which wasn't entirely feasible. Thankfully, being a fishing town, nobody really noticed the smell; but the trouble began when we visited the New York city for a couple of days.

     It was nearing the hottest day of the summer and my aunt was due at a launch for her first novel, 'The Corpse Danced at Midnight.' The publishing house believed this book would prove to be a huge success, and, as such, they'd organised a launch party at a swanky hotel in the city. Anyone who was anyone was invited. Understandably, Aunt Jessica was terribly nervous about it all, so I agreed to accompany her.

   We'd arrived the day before to get settled into our hotel suites. I did get a few funny looks as I entered the hotel. People's noses wrinkled as I, and the accompanying fragrance of dead fish, wafted past them. My aunt and I were so used to the smell we were no longer conscious of it. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said of rich New Yorkers. They definitely noticed; I think everyone assumed that I smelt this way because I was, technically speaking, dead, and as such they were too polite to mention it to me directly. It didn't even occur to them that I might have been hauling halibut about all week.

     I got the same funny looks as I strolled into the hotel bar later that evening. I'd just ordered a large brandy when the launch party's creative director approached me, pulled a face of distaste, and then insisted on paying for my drink. It would turn out that he had taken one look at me and had had an idea - a surprise for my aunt Jessica; she always did like a bit of drama. But he would need my help if it this surprise was going to happen.

   The following night, as the launch party was in full swing so I made a discreet exit. As I reached the lift in the lobby there was already a man waiting for a lift to return to the ground floor. I recognised him as a greasy, balding, and paunchy newspaper journalist who had interviewed aunt Jessica earlier in the day. After a few drinks at the party he was returning to his room to finish writing up the interview. His nose crinkled as I entered lift 'A' behind him. I politely asked which floor he wanted. He replied that his room was on floor 25 so I pressed the buttons for floors 23 and 25. For the entire duration of our ascent he stood behind me, his breathing slow and raspy. It was an uncomfortable journey, to say the least.  I was relieved when the bell pinged and the doors opened on floor 23. I said goodnight to the unkempt hack, and without once looking behind me, I strolled up the hallway to my room. I changed into the outfit supplied by the creative director, and made my way back to the lift. Lift 'A' was still on floor 25 but lift B was open and waiting for passengers. Within moments I was in the hotel kitchen.

   The climax of the evening was nearing so a giant cake had been wheeled out into the centre of the ballroom. All attentions were, quite understandably, focused on this gloriana of sponge and butter icing, so nobody noticed two police officers and a nervous front desk clerk standing near the door. They appeared to be looking for someone.

  As the clock struck midnight the spotlights turned red and purple, making the cake look as dramatic as a cake has, possibly, ever looked. At the second gong of the clock, like a corpse from the grave, I slowly began to emerge from the top of the cake. By the sixth gong I was out of that cake, dressed as a ballerina and dancing as if my life depended on it. The crowd, initially startled were soon whooping and laughing.

    Aunt Jessica was delighted by the surprise, but, if I'm honest, she seemed even more at home with what happened next.

  As I was 'throwing shapes' on the dance floor, I suddenly heard the desk clerk holler, "That's him!"

    I, of course, looked up just as the crowd parted to let the officers through. Through the crowds centre parting I could now see beyond the police officers walking towards me, through the ballroom door and out into the lobby. It was then that I witnessed the body of the now deceased newspaper hack being hoisted out of lift 'A' and onto to a stretcher. Somebody screamed because she also saw the body. Everybody else then screamed because somebody else was screaming. It was pandemonium. I quickly realised that the front desk clerk had seen me getting into the lift and it was now assumed that I'd murdered him. I subsequently learnt that he had been less than kind about Aunt Jessica, (something about a 'meddling country busybody', if I remember correctly) so I can see why they thought I might have killed him.  As it happens, I hadn't killed him. But in my panic, rather than suffer full body collapse, I legged it.

It's amazing how fast one can run when one is being pursued by the law. I can only assume that it was the tutu which gave me that extra lift. I sprinted through the hotel kitchen, out of the back door, and into the summer's night.

    Lady luck must have been on my side that night because it just so happened that, at that exact moment, a dancing troop were just boarding their tour bus at the rear of the theatre next door. Just as the bus doors were closing I jumped aboard. Within seconds we were driving off into the night and the police were left floundering.

     The dancing girls were on a world tour, tonight New York, tomorrow, who knew. I didn't care I was just glad to still be a free man. They'd seen my agility as I'd hopped onto the bus, so girls were very accepting of me, despite the smell. With my artistic flair I seemed to naturally fit into their troop so when they invited me to join up I leapt at the chance. So that she wouldn't worry, I would call Aunt Jessica as soon as I got the opportunity. At our next stop, which was due to be Massachusetts, I would obtain a fake passport and then I would enjoy my life as a dancing fugitive.

   Within hours of my exit, Aunt Jessica had proved that I hadn't killed the journalist. At least, not intentionally. It appeared that he, (the journalist) had tried to hold his breath in the lift, all the way to floor 23, and had accidentally suffocated himself. The police didn't believe Aunt Jessica until she suggested that they smell some of my clothes. They did so, and the puzzle was instantly solved. I was free to return but I was having such fun that I was in no hurry to come back.

    My feet blistered and my bones ached but such fun I had. I learnt more about periods, breast tenderness, and tapeworm, than any dancing man really needed to know. But in return I visited many of the earth's greatest cities. I pirouetted on some of the finest stages, and I made friends all over the world. I almost proposed to Betty, one of the dancing girls, but at that point common sense prevailed. 

   After two years of being on the road, I decided to return to 'normal' life. By that time Aunt Jessica had written a number of bestselling books. Unfortunately corpses were also making a habit of turning up everywhere she went. I'm sure it was wonderful inspiration for her novels but it made people nervous. So I returned to work with her as her public relations officer...and that's a whole other story for another time.

Right folks, I fancy a ride with the hairy bikers,

My regards to you all,

Frank

x
 

The Dragon's Den

Howdy folks,

   And now it's time for me to introduce our dragons. Now, I know what you're thinking. Will they burn my house down if they as much as sneeze? Fear not - none of our dragons are capable of producing a puff of smoke, let alone flames. Sadly, this is the reason our dragons are looking for new homes. If you would like to share your home with one of our dragons then you'll find them in the Catbird Craft shop, HERE.

Mycroft

Mycroft the dragon spent many years living in a country manor house where his sole purpose was chief fire lighter. Unfortunately when, after a nasty cold, his flames were extinguished for the final time so his employers abandoned him.

Penelope

Penelope the dragon was employed by a family to light their daily fires. Alas when the family upgraded to central heating, Penelope became surplus to requirements. She was brought to us in the hope that she can be rehomed. Absolutely no use for lighting your barbecue but she looks pretty. (Penelope has now been rehomed)

Dave

Dave the dragon was found hiding in a cave. He apparently survived an encounter with St George and has been in hiding ever since. Now that he's been brought up to date with the modern world he's ready to be rehomed. (Dave has now been rehomed)

I think it's time for a tumbler of brandy!

My regards to you all,

Frank

x

Skeleton friends reassembled

Howdy Folks!

                            I think it's perfectly normal to occasionally wonder what happened to friends and enemies of the past. You know, those people that you've somehow lost contact with. As I've been alive for so long now, over the years I have lost contact with many people. Okay, so that's because most of them have died...but there are a few 'lost friends' still around who are nearly as old as I am.
  As much as it baffles me most of the time, there are perks to the modern world; and thanks to the joys of Facebook I now know what has happened to one of my oldest friends, Mr Harold Featherstone.

Harold, as he is today

  Back in the 1960's, Harold and I were actors, dahling. We may not have been the leading men but we had some meaty roles. At least, as meaty a role as any skeleton could really expect. Our friendship had been flourishing until early 1964. What went wrong? Well, it was all rather unfortunate.

      The previous year we'd been involved in the making of our first major feature film, 'Jason and the Argonauts'. We were taught how to fight with swords and shields. It was a painstaking process but all of the skeletons worked really hard, and by the end of filming we were like professional sword fighters. Mind you, it wasn't all work hard - we played hard too. We had such fun, and, not for the first or last time in my life, it was just as well I didn't have a liver or it would have been in a very sorry state indeed. As filming ended Harold and I were still on good terms. His next job was a low budget horror production, and I was preparing to film an episode of 'Z-Cars back in the UK. I'm confident that everything between us would have been fine had 'Jason and the Argonauts' not been an unexpected box office hit.
      As the crowds queued around the block to see the film for the second, third, time, the interest of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences was piqued. For some reason they chose to overlook the rest of the film, which left the director, Don (Chaffey), less than pleased; but the academy did acknowledge the skeletons with a nomination in the 'best skeleton crew in a motion picture' category. What should have been a prestigious occasion would turn out to be one of the worst nights of my life.

      Walking up the red carpet, all dressed up in our tuxedos and best dresses, was a surreal experience. The crowds who had gathered were very enthusiastic to catch a glimpse of their screen idols. I didn't know that young girls, and some men, could scream quite that loud. This, combined with the sheer number of flashbulbs going off, made the experience overwhelming. As a consequence to all this stimuli, I was beginning to get flustered. The photographers were shouting, 'Frank...Give us a smile...Frank...Over here Frank!' When flustered I comply, so I walked towards them without hesitation. I smiled a little, posed a bit, and then continued on towards the civic theatre. It was over in a matter of seconds but it was during this moment that Harold first began to think I was getting above my station, that I was somehow going to steal his limelight. The rot of jealousy had set in.
     As the day of the ceremony neared, as a group we had decided that, in the unlikely event that we should win, Harold would collect the award on our behalf. He would also read the speech that he'd lovingly prepared. But, as I nervously flounced about on the red carpet, the seeds of Harold's resentment had been sown. What neither of knew was that, actually, the photographers had been shouting for one of the world's finest film directors, Frank Capra, who had been standing behind me. Unless making an idiot of yourself in public is your thing, there was nothing for Harold to be jealous of.

Our fifteen minutes...

        If that wasn't awkward enough, worse was to come. By the time our category was about to be announced we'd already patiently sat through hours of other awards and acceptance speeches. It's fair to say that by this point we were in a bit of a slumber. But, as everyone politely applauded the nominees as they were announced to the audience, we were suddenly roused into action; phantom pulses were racing, nervous brows were being mopped. As Cary Grant proudly declared, "And the winner is....'The Skeleton Crew for Jason and the Argonauts'". The crowd began to clap enthusiastically; music from the film began to play; and Harold was supposed to be getting to his feet to go and collect the award. I'm not quite sure what happened. I initially thought he'd died of delight. But I believe, just as the announcement was about to be made, he'd leant down to pick up the glass of champagne he'd accidentally knocked over in the excitement. In doing so he somehow got his bony hand wedged between the seats. As the spotlight fell on him it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. In a nervous desire to help I leapt to my feet, grabbed his other hand, and began trying to tug him free. Sidney Poitier, ever the gent, also sprung to his feet and tried to help. One muscly heave from the scrumptious Sidney, and Harold's arm broke free from his body. (Unexpected joint dislocation is a common consequence of having no tendons.) Thankfully, the sound of the orchestra muffled most of Harold's screams. Sidney and I landed on our backsides. Now thinking that this was a farcical set up, the audience roared with laughter.

      To say I was flustered would be to grossly understate. Harold still couldn't get to his feet; the orchestra were now repeating themselves; and nobody had yet collected the award. Then Sidney said to me, "Aren't you going to go and get it then?" As I say, when flustered I comply. So up towards the stage I went. My knees were knocking so badly that I sounded like a herd of horses on cobblestones. Just to make matters worst, and much to my horror, I realised that I still had hold of Harold's arm. But there was no time to dither as on my arrival to the stage I was immediately embraced by Jack Lemmon and Cary Grant; handed our Oscar; and pushed in front of a microphone. In my defence, not only was I was startled but I also had no prepared notes. As a result my acceptance speech was short, but shamefully cringe-worthy. To some of the finest actors and filmmakers in the world, I said, "This one's for my friend, Mr Harold Featherstone. Don't let his extensive horror film experience put you off; he's armless, really." I waved both arm and award in the air in a celebratory fashion, grinned like an idiot, and then promptly left the stage to generous applause. It was awful.

Not one but two

    If I thought that was bad, the worst was yet to come. When I returned to my seat, Harold, now free to leave his seat, was quietly seething. I gave him his arm back and sat down next to him. As the nominees for the 'best actress in a supporting role' award were being introduced, he leaned over and whispered to me, 'You planned that, you bony bastard!' I was shocked for I'd done no such thing. I certainly didn't recall doing so. I'm really not a malicious sort of individual, and, as far as I'm aware, I have no inclination to trap people in theatre furnishings.

     "Are you really that desperate for a role on The Dick Van Dyke show!?" Harold sniped at me. To be honest, I had no desire for a part on the Dick Van Dyke show, but I was now finding Harold's ungracious envy a most unappealing character trait. I was about to suggest that we go and get a drink in the bar, when I suddenly heard Elizabeth Taylor say, "And the award for best actor in a supporting role goes to...Frank Fettle."

   Well that was a surprising turn up for the books as I wasn't even nominated. It was worse than an erroneous episode of Australia's Next Top Model. The audience may have been whooping wildly, but I was still able to hear Harold suffer a severe case of sudden bone collapse - a condition not unusual in skeletons who've just received a major shock to the system.

     I was on my way to the stage to collect an award I didn't deserve at all, and my friend was now just a pile of bones in a tux. As he lay there, staring at the underneath of his theatre seat, his face stuck in the remnants of his spilt champagne, his conviction that I had, somehow, constructed this entire charade didn't once falter. He'd be fine once he'd been reassembled and had two cups of hot sweet tea, but, nonetheless, none of this had been in the script for the evening.

     The final straw came when, during my second acceptance speech of the night, a little voice wafted up from between the seats of rows C and D to fill the auditorium. My heckling friend had soon turned the air a shade of blue with his insults. Thankfully, Rex Harrison was mindful enough to lean over and disconnect Harold's jaw from his skull before he could continue his tirade no longer.

    His words were so vulgar I dare not to repeat them in polite company. It had been quite unnecessary. But, alas, so was my response. The gasps of shock had abated and silence had returned. So as I finished my short speech about how shocked I was, I brought it to a swift conclusion by saying, "Am I now eligible for a guest spot on the Dick Van Dyke Show? What do you say, Dick? Am I?" The crowd roared.

     Had he been in better shape I'm sure Harold would have gladly beaten me over the head with my own femur. I never got the chance to find out. The rest of the crew dragged him out the the bar to be reassembled, and before I knew it I'd been dragged backstage to calm down. My knees were still knocking so Katherine Hepburn brought me a drink and whispered that she'd put a 'little something extra' in there. I can only imagine what that was because soon enough my nerves had ebbed away and I was having a great time. 

    My theory as to how I ended up with an Oscar is this...It is still my belief that Don Chaffey was so determined to win his film an Oscar that, after the crowd warmed to me, he sneaked into the envelope and scribbled my name on the results card. I knew I had a natural flair for sword fighting but I was no Olivier. That was just my theory nobody else believed me. Everyone else was hailing me as a new physical comic genius who had somehow hijacked the Oscar ceremony. It was all a terrible mistake.  People who had never heard of me before this night were telling me how much they loved me; knowledgeable people approached me to tell me how much they loved my work. Amazing, considering I done so little of it. This, was what Harold was jealous of?   The appreciation I received didn't exactly put flesh on my bones, or a beat in my heart.
The following morning my face was on the front cover of all the newspapers. My interloper status had been discovered, and the true winner (Melyvn Douglas) informed. Once I'd been found out, so to speak, I immediately returned the statue of the little gold man.
     In time the furore calmed down but, still believing that I'd made all this happen, Harold refused to speak to me again. Back in 1978 I thought I'd caught a glimpse of him in an episode of Quincy, but I'd lost all contact with him long before. That was until this past weekend, when my good friend, Mr Michael Taylor, visited Lincoln University. It seems that Harold was on duty as part of their open day. I presume that he was in the science department.  Not only am I thrilled to know that's his reassembly was successful, and that he's still 'with us'; but it's good to know that he's still working.  

Right folks; that was a pointless tale from my past...and now the brandy glass needs a refill. 

My regards to you all,

Frank

x 

 

All change...

Howdy folks!

  Frank here! Well, I've had my brandy. Actually I've now had two. And, frankly speaking, I'm rather glad that I'd indulged in the finest of medicinal drinks because, shortly after my last post here, the cat and the bird sat me down to break some news to me.

  We, as in myself, Claude, and Belle, are to be re-homed.  The cat and the bird were very good and reassured us all that it wasn't because we weren't doing our jobs with pride and efficiency. Nonetheless, my rickety knees knocked; Belle's beak quivered; even Claude shed a little liquid latex tear. But the fact remains - Catbird Craft is moving house.

As much as we love our reasonably sized studio in Forest Hill, we understand that it's really not as practical as the cat and bird had hoped it would be. It may not be all that far from home but each journey to travel to and fro, a) takes time, and b) takes headspace. A+B = a drain on valuable productivity resources. The cat is a busy feline who would appreciate a little less city driving in her week, and the bird is somewhat tired and agoraphobic. For both cat and bird, relaxation is the key to being truly creative. So, all in all, when the pros and cons are totted up and the viewers votes have been counted, it makes sense to move studio to somewhere which caters for as many of their needs as possible. Personally, my attitude is that as long as it has a kettle I don't mind where we are.

    So, once I'd asked why, unsurprisingly, my next question was where? And the, somewhat crazy, response I received was this - "Well, we thought we'd move into the backyard...next to the pond."

Well, of course! That absolutely would have been my first choice on new location too.
  Yes, funnily enough, my next enquiry was how. The response - "Well, we thought we'd erect a little shed and use that as a studio instead."...Drat! Now, why didn't I think of that.
  Thankfully, there are solar lights out there, confusing all the moths, so any late night treks back into the flat shouldn't result in any unexpected dips into the pond.

  To make room for the shed there are pretty plants that need to be unceremoniously dug up, and then replanted elsewhere in the garden. They will have new homes, which is good for them. But what about us? We worried that we might not be able to come to the new grotto like studio as it will be small, but we needn't have worried.
   Having discussed it with the cat and the bird, we all think Bell will be happy because there are other birds there, birds just like her. There's even an indoor tree for her to perch in when she's not on duty as the unofficial studio fire alarm.

  However, we are a little concerned about Claude. His permanently aggressive stance does somewhat intimidate the queen of cats, who is already in residence. We fear that she may, quite literally, take chunks out of him. In the likely event that a truce cannot be reached, in an unexpected turnaround, we may now need security for the studio security. If a suitable candidate can't be found then, just like little Harry Potter, Claude will have to live in the cupboard under the stairs.

"And the fifteen points go to Gryffindor"

   There is no spare room so I shall be sleeping on the sofa. I will have access to a television, which means I can watch 'Bones' whenever I like. I will be able to have a hot shower. Oh goodness, I shall be able to bake cakes until my absent heart desires no more. Suddenly, I find myself warming to this change of scenery. It may sound like retirement is appealing to me but fear not. I will continue to report on all the Catbird Craft news at every possible opportunity. I suspect that one of my first posts will involve an update on how it is that the cat and the bird manage to transport shed panels through their small and awkwardly shaped terraced flat. Over the back wall is looking the most likely option. Oh, I can hardly wait to watch this adventure unfold out of a flat pack.

This obviously revises the official launch day of Catbird Craft. We're behind schedule by a month but there will be more information to follow. Apparently, the great launch will involve a party. Count me in!

Now, after this shock announcement I really must have another brandy and a lie down.

My regards to you all,

Frank
x

Sabbat card #1 - Samhain

Howdy Folks,

   Frank here, again. My little lie down has been interrupted by this exciting news. Catbird Craft have delivered yet another greetings card. Like London buses - you wait for one and three come along at once.

    When the range is complete there will be eight cards in all, each celebrating one of the pagan sabbat days. The first card out of the blocks is Samhain, (literally translated as 'summer's end'). Traditionally speaking, by this point in the year all the harvest had to be gathered in as come November the wintry faeries would blight any remaining fruits. Animals would either be brought indoors for the winter or slaughtered, and wood supplies gathered for continued warmth throughout the season to come.  The Celts considered the year to be divided into two halves - the light and the dark. And as it is believed that from the darkness of winter comes the growth of summer, Samhain is often considered to be the beginning of the pagan year. From this festival came what we more commonly know today as Halloween.

  This particular card is inspired by not only by the European Celtic tradition, but also the Mexican Day of the Dead festival.

Some of details on the card include:

The bonfire represents the autumnal 'bone fires' of yesteryear when the bones of slaughtered animals were burnt.

The apple to signify the gathering of the harvest.

The Flor de Muerto ("Flower of the Dead") are thought to attract souls of the dead to the offerings left on the decorated graves and alters. These flowers are often Mexican marigolds, as the bright and lively colours are believed to represent the sun's rays upon those in the world of the dead. The text 'Hay mas tiempo que vida' translates as 'There is more time than life'.

This card will be available in the Catbird Craft shop when it opens. More info about that to follow.

I need a brandy now.

My regards to you all,

Frank 
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My way - that's how I did it.

Boys night in

Howdy Folks,

     Mr Frank L. Fettle here. Time for another photo from my many photograph albums. It's a bit hazy now but this picture was taken sometime in the sixties. We were shooting some pool. Sammy Davis and I, against Frank and Dean. It was my turn at the table, and having had at least one brandy too many, I was feeling rather confident of clearing the table in one visit. So, as I bent down to take my shot, I jokingly said to Dean, 'And now, the end is here. And so you face the final curtain.' I'd potted the first ball so my confidence grew...'My friend, I'll say it clear'...and I'd pocketed another ball in the top corner pocket...'I've lived a life that's full'...and in went ball number three into the left middle....'But more, much more than this, I did it my way.' Unfortunately I missed the next ball, and all I could slur was, 'Regrets, I've had a few, but too few to mention'.  This picture was taken by Peter Lawford just as the other Frank said to Dean, 'Hey, don't you think that would make a great song?' The other Frank reckoned he could make a good song out of just about any old drunken ramblings.
  They were very happy night's in but out of all of us, I was the one who couldn't hold his liquor. Oh the hangovers. I just couldn't keep up with those boys so we gradually lost touch. I know my liver appreciated it but I often wonder what happened to my old friends.

Right folks, Princess Anne is on the telly. Must dash.

My regards to you all,

Frank
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