Story 183: Reza Shadey and the Larry of the North
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a tale about a very cheeky and magnificently fluffy Persian cat who decided the whole country needed a new Chief Mouser — and that the job description had his name written all over it in very large, very important letters.
It was a bright Tuesday morning in Catford. Mrs Higgins was in the kitchen with the radio on, stirring her tea and humming along to something cheerful. Reza Shadey lounged on the windowsill like a king inspecting his empire, his brown-and-black fur gleaming and his emerald eyes half-closed in deep strategic thought.
Then the newsreader said three magic phrases.
"Prime Minister Andy Burnham..."
Reza's ears shot upright.
"...and his dog Axel..."
Reza's tail went bottle-brush stiff.
"...will keep a second base in Manchester, sometimes called No. 10 North..."
Reza nearly fell off the windowsill.
"No. 10 North?" he whispered. "A northern headquarters? A fresh jurisdiction? An unclaimed Chief Mouser vacancy?"
He leapt down, puffed out his magnificent chest and marched straight through the cat flap.
"Board meeting! Emergency! Maximum urgency!"
Penelope arrived first, elegant and white and already looking tired. Ginger Tom wandered over because meetings sometimes involved biscuits. Tiger bounced in sideways and nearly knocked over a flowerpot.
"What's the vibe, boss?" Tiger asked.
Reza climbed onto an upturned flowerpot and cleared his throat.
"My associates", he announced, "I have analysed the government's latest expansion strategy. Larry the Cat remains Chief Mouser in London. Axel the dog remains in Manchester because, quite sensibly, management has recognised they are... operationally incompatible."
Penelope blinked slowly.
"Rezzi... I don't think that's quite what they meant."
Reza waved a dismissive paw.
"The conclusion is obvious. No. 10 North requires a cat who works with Axel. A diplomatic visionary. A strategic feline capable of cross-species stakeholder engagement."
He puffed out his chest.
"I shall become... Larry of the North."
Tiger gasped.
"That's actually high-key legendary."
"I know."
Reza produced a slightly chewed pencil and an old envelope.
He began writing, muttering every word aloud in what he firmly believed was flawless Northern English.
"Dear Andy, me duck.
Ey up!
I am Reza Shadey. I get on grand with dogs, especially Axel. Sound as a pound, that one. I'll keep the mice sorted, no bother. Ta very much for considering me for Chief Mouser of No. 10 North. Our kid Larry can keep the southern patch.
Yours sincerely,
Reza Shadey
CEO of Absolutely Everything."
Ginger Tom peered over his shoulder.
"Mate... you've written 'me duck' three times and 'sound as a pound' twice."
"Regional flavour", Reza replied confidently. "Authenticity builds trust."
Penelope sighed.
"Oh, Rezzi..."
Reza sealed the envelope with one very official paw print.
"We cannot trust ordinary post. This requires executive courier service."
"I'll deliver it in person."
Penelope's ears twitched.
"Manchester is hundreds of miles away."
"Distance", Reza sniffed, "is merely a logistical detail."
Just then, a delivery van pulled up outside the neighbouring house. Across its side were painted the words:
MANCHESTER EXPRESS
Reza's eyes sparkled.
"The powers that be", he whispered reverently, "have provided transportation."
Before anyone could stop him, he darted aboard and disappeared behind a tower of teabags.
"I'll tell Larry I've met his northern replacement!" Tiger called after him.
"Don't encourage him", Penelope sighed.
Several hours later the van doors opened.
Cold drizzle drifted through the air.
Grey clouds hung over Manchester.
Reza stepped out, stretched importantly and frowned.
"Hmm. Slightly underperforming weather."
After a short march — which Reza later described as "an executive inspection of regional infrastructure" — he reached the unassuming, red-brick building of No. 10 North.
"This", he purred, "is where history changes."
He squeezed neatly through the railings.
Before he had taken three steps —
"WOOF!"
A small, white, fluffy whirlwind exploded across the lawn.
It was Axel.
The cheerful Bichon-Poo bounded around Reza in dizzy circles.
"A new friend! Hello! Hello! Do you like sticks? Do you chase tennis balls? I found a really excellent smell!"
Reza attempted to maintain executive dignity while being orbited at tremendous speed.
"Please cease this undisciplined enthusiasm. I am here regarding a senior government appointment."
Axel responded by happily pouncing on him.
The two of them rolled head over paws into a gloriously muddy flowerbed.
When Reza finally emerged, dripping and covered in mud, his magnificent Persian coat resembled an abandoned mop.
He shook himself with profound disappointment.
"The local canine workforce", he muttered, "appears to lack basic professional boundaries."
Seeking somewhere suitably dignified to recover, Reza slipped through an open side door.
Inside he found a cosy bedroom.
A comfortable bed.
A warm room.
A duvet decorated with the Stone Roses.
"Finally", he sighed. "Executive accommodation."
He prepared to leap gracefully onto the bed...
...then stopped.
His nose twitched.
Something smelled dreadful.
Reza recoiled in horror.
There, right in the middle of the duvet, was unmistakable evidence that some thoroughly unprofessional canine had expressed very strong feelings about the new arrangements.
Reza's eyes widened.
"Axel", he whispered dramatically.
"Industrial sabotage."
Reza backed away cautiously.
"Unremarkable premises, endless rain, a bouncing dog with questionable hygiene... this organisation clearly lacks coherent leadership."
He marched back outside just as the Manchester Express driver was about to close the van doors for the journey south.
By the following morning Reza was safely back in Catford, sitting proudly on his favourite cushion while carefully grooming the last stubborn traces of Manchester mud from his fur.
Penelope curled up beside him.
"So", she asked gently, "you didn't get the job?"
Reza looked genuinely puzzled.
"Incorrect."
He licked one paw.
"I conducted a comprehensive site inspection."
Another lick.
"I evaluated the regional management structure."
Another.
"I concluded the position was substantially beneath my professional standards."
Tiger skidded into the room.
"So... you still won?"
"Naturally."
Ginger Tom crunched a biscuit.
"So all that travelling was just research, then?"
"Precisely."
Penelope smiled to herself.
"I thought it might be."
Mrs Higgins looked down at her muddy Persian and chuckled.
"Oh, Reza, you silly sausage."
And so Reza Shadey — temporary applicant for Larry of the North, distinguished inspector of Manchester operations, and undisputed world champion of executive reframing — curled himself into a perfect fluffy doughnut and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of sunny Catford window ledges where enthusiastic dogs, rainy weather and mysterious duvets could never interrupt truly important strategic thinking.
A very important message from Mrs Higgins:
"It's lovely to have big adventures and dream about travelling, but little ones and pets should never climb into vans or other vehicles. If you're going somewhere exciting, always go with a trusted grown-up who can help you get there safely."
Night night. Sleep tight.