Napoleon was also very short, I understand

So, while I get sent to prison for a crime I did not commit (see my previous post), my small friend, Alf, gets sent on a sleepover. To where? To my house! And guess where Alf gets to sleep? On my mum and dad's bed! Now, how unfair is that? What is it about France that allows the 'vertically challenged'...

...(see what I mean?) to rise to the top—or, in this case, my mum and dad's bed—while we grander creatures are kept on the floor? Now, I want to make it absolutely clear that I intend no aspersion whatsoever against our new Monsieur Le President, who is undoubtedly a towering figure in many ways. But, I have to say, it seems to me that Alf and Monsieur Le President share certain characteristics that may reflect the altitude from which they view the world. Who knows?

Oh, I've just been told—told, mind you, not consulted—that Alf is coming for another sleepover this weekend. Terrific!

This is a picture of Alf trying to look 'appealing'. I'm not sure he succeeds. Are you?

Free Josie!

Okay, I’ve been thinking about how best to explain the reason for the long silence on my blog. I thought of telling you that I’ve been unwell, or finally overcome by the cultural differences between France and Barbados. Or, that my dad broke the computer—which, knowing my dad, might have been a pretty convincing explanation.

But, no, I have to tell the truth: I’ve been in jail!

Hold on, let me rephrase that: I’ve been in jail FOR A CRIME I DID NOT COMMIT!

Seriously. One day my dad said, in a scary kind of voice, ‘Josie, get in the car.’ Well, I like getting in the car, so no problem there, but my mum had a look on her face that warned me this was going to be no ordinary ride. We drove for miles and miles and miles until we reached this place that has tall, locked gates and wire fences; a prison, no less. As we arrived, I could hear the distressing baying of captive convicts, the jangle of the warden’s keys, and the slap of the baton against her thigh. Without pity, my dad removed my collar—and, therefore, my identity—and forced me inside the gulag. Then they, my mum and dad, left me to my fate without so much as a backward glance.

Well, I don’t mind admitting I was pretty scared. Some of my fellow inmates looked really mean, in a hassling, pushy kind of way. They kept demanding to know what I’d done: ‘For what crime are you doing the time, dude?’—and since I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell them. That first night, I found a corner to lie down and hide in, and I don’t think I slept a single wink.

All right, the next day wasn’t so bad. Some of my fellow prisoners turned out to be pretty nice puppies, and there was this huge exercise yard where we were allowed to run and play to our heart’s content. And the warden—whose name is Anne—didn’t really have a baton, and she said I was adorable, and I got regular meals and my own safe space to sleep in. And my friend, Charlie, was there, doing his own time, so we kept each other company. After a little while I thought, ‘Well, there are far worse places to be.’

But, jail is jail, so what I had I done? Absolutely Nothing, is the answer. I was fitted up, convicted on the basis of false evidence. Above all, this a cautionary tale.

The Bunny Murder
Okay, this is the prosecution’s Exhibit A:


Now, I want you to note several important things: 1) Whilst it is clear from the photograph that a bunny is deceased, it is NOT me who is holding the evidence in his/her jaws. Right? 2) Nowhere in the photograph do I appear. 3) While it is true that the photograph was found on my computer, there is NO evidence that I had prior knowledge of this crime. 4) Okay, the fact I had the photograph in my possession does suggest ‘knowledge after the fact’—but, so what? Just because you have a picture of a crime scene doesn’t mean you know anything about the crime. Does it? 5) The fact that I claimed not to know the identity of the perpetrator—‘All labs look alike to me,’ I said—merely tells you that, by instinct, I’m not a snitch.

A couple of days ago—after who knows how long—my mum and dad came and got me out of prison and took me home (where, as you can imagine, the kittens were overjoyed to see me—not!) But I’m only on parole, apparently, and might be returned to prison at any time. This is so unfair!