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Good evening my good friends. Your company is quite welcomed in these blustery days. Let me take your coats and hats. Now, come closer to the warmth of the fire. Yes, pull up your chairs to the hearth and make yourselves comfortable. That's it. Now set back and listen to my tale that will raise your hairs and chill your flesh. Relax as I relate the tale of the funeral procession of the Queen of Cats.....

"Down in the easterly part of England, not far from a pleasant town on the road to the fair city of London, there stood a sexton's thatched cottage alongside the small village church. For all that is known the edifice still stands and its weed-strewn cemetery still holds the ancient crumbling bones of many generations of the village.

"It was about two centuries in the past when Mad King George ruled the British Isles when that unpleasant incident at the burial grounds to the church was noticed and duly noted. Under the crazed king's corrupt rule the Colonies was lost and lawlessness was part and parcel of the daily life. One of the daily pursuits in obtaining a fair living, outside of trifling with public and private funds, was in corpse snatching.

"Oh yes, my friends, corpse snatching was a very profitable occupation as various universities of that era required plenty of cadavers for dissection by their many interested students; the fresher the body the higher the payment.

"Now where we? Yes, yes the story!

"On a fair Autumn evening at that time when the full moon was high, two scruffy gentlemen were quite busy at the cemetery on the grounds of that village church. It was quite difficult to discern their features in the dark of night. One could say that one was rather thin and long-legged. The other was rather middling in height with a rolypoly body. The only similarity was the shabbiness of their dress. Also both their faces were covered from the noses down to the neck with a decorative kerchief.

Quite busy I dare say as they were quite occupied in exhuming the body of the corpulent town's barkeep who recently expired from the vapours. It was a seemingly easy task as the vicarage grave digger couldn't count over four feet; and not one of the mourners took notice to the depth of the final resting place.

"The light of a dimly lit lantern shone on their efforts in violating the final resting. All was almost quiet except the sound of the hoot of an owl on the prey and the squeal of the hunted field mouse. Grunting noises were also emitted from the twosome as they shovelled

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