I have had an extremely bad weekend. Not just bad, but Bae abandonment level bad.

This weekend was… a disaster. A ceremony the likes I have ever witnessed was thrown and I was cast aside by my own subjects in the process. They call it, a baby shower, but I know that what it really means is that they are preparing for the coronation of a new ruler. I should have known this day would come, where my apple shaped head and fuzzy backside were no longer cute enough to keep their fleeting attention, and yet I was not prepared.

Evening thumb-peasant-folk, I come to you today with tales of my upcoming nine-year (toona) Moobilee.

Change is on the cold north wind that has seemingly come to stay in this part of the Great British nation for which my breed is so named, and I find myself at the heart of it, as ever watchful over bae.