Coloured pencil drawing of a grinning grey Cheshire Cat design with blue stripes, a green Drink Me bottle, a red Eat Me tin and the words We're All Mad Here, shown as a flash design.

Cheshire Cat with Drink Me and Eat Me bottles

Colour · Flash

A coloured pencil drawing of a grey Cheshire Cat with blue stripes and a wide grin, resting its paws on a purple splatter base. A green bottle labelled Drink me hangs on the left, a red tin labelled Eat me sits on the right, and the words We're All Mad Here sit beneath the cat. Soft shading and bright blue, green and red pencil colour give it a bold, illustrated look, with purple pencils visible at the edge of the frame.

Cheshire cat Cat Bottle Text Splatter

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cat came back the week the Bramleys started to soften on the boughs, and my uncle Ewan swore it had been sitting on the gatepost since Tuesday, grinning at the pickers as though it had bought the orchard off us and was only waiting for the paperwork. Nobody liked to argue with Ewan before his second cup of tea, so we let it be.

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The tin turned up on the packing shed shelf that same morning, the red one Gran used for shortbread at the church fete, with EAT ME scratched on the lid in her looping hand. The green bottle with the brass-tagged string was in the cold room beside the cider barrels, and the tag said DRINK ME in letters so faint I had to hold it to the window. I had baked nothing and locked nothing, so I carried the tin up to the top rows and sat under the Discovery, meaning to have one biscuit, and then I had three.

The bottle was less sensible. I drank a thimbleful, and the orchard leaned like a stage set, the wasps went quiet, and the windfalls swelled until they were the size of footballs. "Don't be so serious," the cat said from the branch above me, though its mouth hardly moved. "Everyone here is a little mad, or they wouldn't be picking in August." I laughed until I was hiccupping, and when I looked up again the grin was still there, hanging in the leaves with nothing much behind it.

When Ewan found me at dusk I was trying to climb the Bramley with a shortbread in each fist, and he said I had been talking to the gatepost for an hour. Next morning the tin was back on the shelf, empty, and the cat sat on the gatepost as it always had, grinning at the pickers as though it had sold them the orchard, and nobody has said a word against it since.