I was enjoying a spinach, ricotta and chicken in my local pie bar one day (I think it was a Friday), when Cat Fences, Pie Day Friday’s resident inflammatory pun artist and amateur rapper, walked in, carrying a monumental red boombox.
“Could you turn that down, please,” I shouted.
“Pardon?” yelled Cat.
“I said could you turn that down, please?”
“I can’t hear you. I’m going to turn the music off.”
The ensuing silence was so deafening that I didn’t catch what Cat was saying, although I believe it rhymed.
“… We’re being oppressed, Rosamund M. Danny,” continued Cat.
I did not even stop eating my delicious, if somewhat unusual, pie. Cat Fences found a new way to declare us oppressed every couple of weeks, be it by the university, the government, or traffic law.
However, my lack of passion riled Cat. She asked me, angrily, if I had not listened to the latest single by her band, RUN P.I.E., the one that she had personally put in my Czech tutor’s pigeonhole. I admitted that I had not, but, in an effort to spare her feelings, I pretended to wonder if my tutor had not fallen in love with the funky beats and divisive lyrics.
“Whatever, Rosamund M. Danny. I’ll find out the truth when I read your blog,” said Cat Fences.
I hastened to change the subject – partially to divert attention from my hatred of RUN P.I.E., and partially to hide my elation that someone read my blog. “How are we being oppressed?”
Cat Fences leant in, accidentally putting her elbow in my tasty pie. For a brief moment, I really did feel oppressed. “It’s simple, Rosamund M. Danny,” she explained. “They’re taking away our right to piety.”
In my naivety and slight-deafness, I thought Cat had said party. This was patently ridiculous: after all, we were on a university campus and I had passed four parties and one impromptu gathering on my way here. Indeed, after months of campaigning by Cat Fences herself, the university offers two party modules – PLG103 How To Get Smashed At Plug and CRP105 Introduction To Corp (although this latter module has been suspended pending cancellation following two Rainbow Pint related casualties).
Cat Fences glowed with pride when I reminded her of this. “It’s true,” she admitted graciously, “I have single-handedly given students the right to party. But you need to clean out your ears, Rosamund M. Danny. I said that we need to fight for our right to piety.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. But clearly you’re an idiot so I’ll explain: remember what happened last week at the Fox and Frog.”
“Only too well,” I mumbled, cringing at the memory. My fellow platipie and I had been chatting over a minced beef and onion when Cat Fences burst in, wearing a party hat. Everyone fell silent and watched in horror as Cat began hurling party poppers and novelty candles in the shape of penises around the pub. I sank lower in my chair and pretended not to recognise the party maniac – no easy task, given that her explicit freestyle rap mentioned me by name.
When Neil, the guy who makes the pies, was nearly blinded by a well-aimed wax phallus, Cat was forcibly removed from the establishment.
“I did some research after that fateful night,” said Cat. “And it turns out that the right to piety – that is,” she added, eyeing me scornfully, “the right to combine pies and parties – is not currently protected by any government. That means it’s up to us to fight for it.”
Cat stood up, a maniacal gleam in her eye, turned her boombox back on and yelled as she left, “Watch this space.”