Communication of a kind, or a humble contribution to London Fashion Week

Some time ago I was the guest of, among other creatures in the household, a mostly magnificently white cat (I say mostly, he was equipped with a dark coloured tail so as to be located easily in snowdrifts, etc, and a Gorbachevian patch on the forehead for aesthetic purposes). He resided with his sister, an elegant mute with an eating disorder blending bulimia with an appetite for electrical wiring. I believe they originated in Bushwick, or thereabouts.

Anyway, this feline was in the habit of shedding his brilliant raiment about the place, liberally, as a means of self-expression. Irresistably adherent, this fur of his, so all visitors carried out into the world his traces, and thus his fame spread, by the medium of subway and taxi seats and the general crush of the crowd.

I'm only reminded of this as I found a pair of jeans today that for several years had escaped the attentions of the lint roller kindly despatched to me by his human companion. They are, in theory, black. But, in practice, due to my dear acquaintance, not. Sentiment dissuades me from attacking them with adhesive rotary contraptions. I'll wear them as they are, almost a furry beast in their own right. I'll be sure to sit down a lot on public transport and in pubs and people's homes. The coating of fine white hairs on my own clothing won't be much dimished, but enough of their number will transfer to the garments of others. I'm just a humble disciple and courier, really.