The staff have vanished.
I fear they have been kidnapped, or worse. There are dark forces at work.
They have been replaced by poor shadows who know little of a cat’s ways. They are brutish and uncaring. They deny me all rightful pleasures…
My pale sister is naïvely unfazed. She has even flirted with the enemy. “Our acolytes will return,” she opines with languid indifference. “They always do.” What does she know or understand?
In desperation, I force down the tiniest morsel of the ‘food’ they proffer. It appears from the dark dungeon below the sink, from whence comes my usual sacred nourishment.
But I have my suspicions. I swear the words ‘Whiskas’ and ‘Own Brand’ were whispered on the wind. Or was it simply my imagination…?
For now I watch and wait. I don the disguise of ‘sweet kitty’. I dream of the trials through which I shall force these new, ‘rustic’ substitutes to labour.
I shall sleep with one eye half open…
Feste's Lament 
Hang in there, Feste, and don’t hide in the cellar. I can see that you’re pining in an appropriate way. You’re doing awfully well. We are in a tent and sometimes it is raining. Xxx
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