Story 142: Reza Shadey and the Royal Visit
Gather 'round, little ones, for a tale of crowns, cats, cameras, and what happens when pure, unfiltered confidence collides with a very important hat.
Catford had lost its mind. Bunting drooped from lampposts like tired smiles after too much tea. Humans packed the pavement three deep, waving tiny flags they'd later forget to recycle. Phones were held aloft like sacred relics. Even the local postie had polished his van — a clear sign that important people were involved.
A Royal visit was coming to the Broadway Theatre.
From the top of the fence, Reza Shadey surveyed the scene with narrowed emerald eyes and a chest puffed out like a commemorative plaque. "Observe, Penelope", he purred. "The ritualised public display of loyalty. Very wise of them to rehearse in advance for my appearance."
Penelope, grooming a paw calmly, glanced up. "Rezzi, it's for the King and Queen."
"Yes", Reza said patiently. "That's what I said. A joint appearance. It would be rude of me to let them wave alone."
Penelope sighed, closing her eyes. "Please don't do anything involving heights. Or speeches. Or singing."
Reza retreated indoors to prepare. True greatness, he knew, was not announced — it was recognised. But a little visual authority never hurt. His gaze fell upon Mrs Higgins's airing cupboard. There, tucked between the sensible sheets, was a tea towel. It wasn't just any tea towel; it was a souvenir 'London 2012 Olympics' tea towel, slightly faded to a pale pinkish-red and bearing a faint, stubborn stain of strawberry jam near the corner.
"Vintage", Reza murmured. "Heritage. Perfect."
With some effort — and considerably less dignity — he arranged it into a cape, tying the corners loosely around his neck. It slipped sideways. He adjusted it. It slipped again. He decided asymmetry suggested modern leadership. Suitably attired in his patriotic cape, he slipped out the cat flap.
By the time Reza reached the Broadway Theatre, the air was vibrating with cheers. He slipped through legs, between shoes, beneath the notice of humans who were too busy looking up to see what was directly under them. Above the entrance loomed the giant Catford Cat statue — a huge, black-and-white fibreglass cat that watched over the town.
"My Platform", Reza decided.
Up he climbed, claws clicking, tail flicking, tea-towel cape fluttering slightly damply in the breeze. He positioned himself behind the statue's great ears, invisible from below but perfectly placed for destiny. As the Royal convoy slowed, the crowd roared — not politely, but desperately.
The Royal car window descended. Inside sat the Queen, immaculate, composed, wearing a pale blue hat of extraordinary dignity. Beside her, stiffening instantly, sat a very fluffy, very haughty cat with a diamond collar. It was Lord Whiskerton.
Lord Whiskerton looked up. He saw the ears. He saw the brown and black fur. He saw the jam-stained 2012 tea towel. His eyes widened in horror. He remembered this cat. This was the fraud who had once gate-crashed the palace calling himself "Count Sardinepaws" before jumping in a fountain!
"Oh no", Lord Whiskerton breathed in High Feline. "Not him. Not the Imposter Count!"
Reza beamed. This was the moment. He gathered himself for a Measured Ceremonial Descent™ — not a jump, he told himself, but a statement of grace. Unfortunately, the fibreglass back of the Catford Cat statue was still slick with morning drizzle.
What followed was not a descent.
It was a slide.
A long, unstoppable, whispering slide, accompanied by a sound Reza would later describe as "the applause of friction".
"MRRROWW—!"
Down he came, cape flailing over his eyes, paws scrambling against smooth plastic, dignity leaving him in instalments. "Whoosh! Slip! Scramble!" He launched off the nose of the statue like a furry ski-jumper.
He struck the brim of the Queen's hat with a soft but unmistakable "PLOP!"
The hat tilted. For one frozen second, all of Britain inhaled. Then Reza bounced gently off the royal millinery, landing on the red carpet in a heap of fur, bunting reflections, and catastrophic timing. "Thud!"
Silence.
Then — laughter. Not cruel laughter. Not angry laughter. The worst kind: delighted laughter. Phones zoomed in. Someone shouted, "THE CAT HIT THE HAT!" Another cried, "IS THIS PLANNED?!"
Security surged forward, then hesitated, confused by the fact that the Queen was laughing too — just a little, just enough to make intervention socially impossible. Reza stood up. He smoothed his fur. He adjusted the 2012 tea towel, which was now draped over his left ear. He bowed.
The Queen's hat was straightened. The car moved on. As it pulled away, Lord Whiskerton pressed his face to the glass and glared.
"You are a disgrace to the species!" he hissed silently. "And that cape is shabby!"
Reza smiled serenely at the departing bumper. "History will disagree, my dear Lord."
By evening, Catford had decided. The footage was everywhere. "Cat Crashes Royal Visit!" "Feline Faux Pas Goes Viral!" "Who Is the Cape Cat from Catford?" Reza watched from the sofa as Mrs Higgins laughed helplessly at her tablet.
"Oh Reza", she said fondly, wiping a tear from her eye. "You're famous. But oh dear, you do look silly sliding down that statue."
"Silly?" Reza replied with a sniff. "I think you mean 'aerodynamic'."
Later, the friends gathered in the garden. Ginger Tom squinted at him. "So... you fell on the Queen? With a tea towel on your head?"
Reza corrected him gently. "I interacted symbolically with the headwear of state. It was a metaphor for the burden of leadership."
Tiger bounced on the patio. "You bonked history! Boing!"
Penelope, watching quietly from the garden chair, tilted her head. "You didn't plan any of that, did you, Rezzi? You just slipped."
Reza opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it again. He looked at the faded tea towel, now back on the washing line. "Planning", he said carefully, "is a flexible concept. The outcome was fame. Therefore, the strategy was flawless."
Penelope smiled softly. "It's funny how people see what they want to see", she murmured. "But I think I prefer you without the cape."
Reza purred, eyes half-closed, soaking up the warmth of the room. "Yes", he said. "Visionaries are often misunderstood. But they are rarely ignored."
And somewhere, in a palace far away, Lord Whiskerton tore up a press release and deleted several drafts of a strongly worded letter, wishing very much that he'd never mistaken a suburban Persian for anything important at all.
A very important message from Mrs Higgins: Statues and high places can be very slippery and dangerous! Never climb on things you aren't supposed to — leave the stunts to the professionals (or the very silly cats)!
Night night. Sleep tight.