Story 140: Reza Shadey and the Diplomatic Immunity
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a tale about a very grand cat who returned from Rome expecting a hero's welcome — and decided to interpret the world exactly as he pleased!
The journey from Rome back to London had been a profound indignity. Reza Shadey, the world's most self-important Persian cat, had spent the flight brooding over his paperwork. He had been classified by the airline not as "His Royal Fluffiness", but as "Non-Commercial Cargo".
"Cargo!" Reza fumed inside his carrier as the plane touched down. "I am being treated as Very Important Luggage with opinions. Somewhere in Brussels, a bureaucrat is laughing... This airline shall be receiving a very sternly worded meow."
But as Mrs Higgins collected him at the airport, Reza perked up. He remembered the stories of old. "Quarantine!" he thought. "Surely a cat of my international standing must be detained for questioning! I shall be placed in a high-security isolation suite in a hotel with velvet curtains and round-the-clock salmon service! I shall hold court from behind glass!"
He prepared his most mysterious, international-spy face for Border Control. The official, a man who looked like he hadn't seen a sunbeam since the steam engine, simply beeped the microchip in Reza's neck. "BEEP!"
"Microchip valid. Rabies jab clear. Animal Health Certificate in order", the man droned. He waved them through. "No quarantine needed for EU arrivals. You're free to go. Next!"
Reza's jaw dropped. "Free to go?!" he thought, outraged. "I am being... released? Into the general population? Without even a thorough inspection of my fluff? This is a dereliction of national security!"
As the taxi rattled through the streets towards Catford, Reza stared out the window, sulking. But then, his mood shifted. Attached to a lamppost was a Union Jack flag. Then, on the next, a St George's Cross. Then another. And another! They alternated down the road, cable-tied to lampposts and fluttering above roundabouts for miles.
Reza gasped, his emerald eyes widening. "Oh my whiskers. They knew."
"Look at them! Flags on every dual carriageway! The nation has mobilised! They have decorated the infrastructure in honour of my repatriation! Clearly, the Prime Minister was alerted to my flight plans. This is a State Visit disguised as a commute!"
He ignored the fact that many flags were damp, tangled, or held up by cheap plastic cable-ties installed by a weary 'patriot' out of Slough. To Reza, the 'cable tie' was the unsung hero of his welcoming parade.
When they finally arrived home, Reza didn't just walk in. He exploded out of his carrier like a fluffy cannonball. He marched straight to his favourite spot on the sofa — which Ginger Tom, having snuck in through the cat flap to borrow the warmth, was currently occupying — and sat on him. He didn't ask; he simply reclaimed his territory instantly, as if property laws did not apply to a returning legend.
Penelope poked her head through the cat flap, having heard the commotion. "Welcome back, Rezzi. Did you have a nice time in Rome?"
Reza looked at her blankly. "Non capisco", he meowed haughtily. "My brain is currently operating in Continental Mode. I may not respond to English commands for several weeks. It is a side effect of being so... European."
Tiger bounced in from the garden, buzzing with energy. "Wow! Did you see the Pope? Did you fight a gladiator?"
Reza sighed, switching back to English purely for the sake of his 'public'. "I have returned", he announced, "under Diplomatic Immunity. Did you not see the flags on the high street? The nation is in a state of celebratory fatigue! I was waived through customs because my importance is literally unmeasurable."
Ginger Tom, now flattened under Reza's weight, grunted. "I think those flags have been there since the anti-immigration protests, mate. Most people just walk past them and say, 'Well, that's depressing.'"
Reza narrowed his eyes. "Nonsense, Thomas. You lack the vision. I have conducted a thorough review of this expedition. I have examined the spreadsheets of my soul. And I have asked the ultimate business question: Is the juice worth the squeeze?"
Penelope tilted her head. "The juice...?"
"The metaphorical juice!" Reza declared. "The squeeze was the 'Non-Commercial Cargo' label and the dry airline biscuits. The juice was the adoration of Rome and the private audience with the Vatican's Curia. My analysis concludes... yes. The juice was adequate. However, I now require an immediate tribute of tuna to offset the travel fatigue."
Mrs Higgins walked in with his bowl. "There you go, Reza! Welcome home, my little traveller!"
Reza looked at the bowl. He looked at the familiar, rainy garden. He looked at the flags on the lampposts in the distance, which were already starting to succumb to the British wind.
"I am not merely back", Reza whispered to himself, taking a dignified bite of his dinner. "I am supervising. I have returned to London to ensure the 'juice' here is squeezed correctly. Now, where is my bilingual translator? I believe I ordered the gourmet pâté."
Night night. Sleep tight.