Land of Green Ginger

I am watching the snow swirling beyond the bay windows that form our stern.   Snowflakes prance and tumble, fairylike, in our wake, sparkle in the reflecting light of the saloon.   There is an icy chill as the door opens and Strawberry comes in from his constitutional along the outside walkway.   He is swathed in a vast orange fur coat and matching hat, with earflaps.   Snow sprinkles his head and shoulders and an icicle moustache covers his upper lip.   We exchange friendly banter regarding the temperature and non-ferrous spheroids before I mount the cast iron spiral staircase into the hull.   It is warm up here, and vast.   The burners roar intermittently and steam valves hiss, there is the gentle whir of pistons and cranks.   Having confirmed, to my satisfaction, that all is well I look out of one of the portholes.   We are following the course of a noble river, black and sinuous against the snow clad landscape.   The lights of our destination reflect on the underside of low ice-laden cloud.
I descend to the wheelhouse where Ferdy confidently controls the helm and elevator wheels, Ginsbergbear and Phoebles bend over the chart table.   Soon we are drifting over a labyrinth of alleys, passages and yards.   Dark warehouses loom over the narrow streets, in every gap and cellar snuggle picturesquely disheveled catnip dens, music halls and brothels.   Infrequent street lamps cast a warm yet eerie glow into the general gloom.   Slowing and descending we drift over the Fish Dock, mooring lines are cast down to the waiting stevedores, and without a word of command we are made fast close by an Arctic Coleyfishtrawler.   A gangplank is run out and we emerge onto the quayside.
Almost immediately a svelte white and black cat appears, Snowdrop the acclaimed unicyclist.   She is to be our guide.   A handcart is commandeered to carry our luggage and we set off, somewhat erratically in Snowdrop's case as unicycles are not ideally adapted to icy conditions, through the dock gates and into the maze that is the Land of Green Ginger.   Strawberry and Phoebles are already fighting over who will pull the handcart.
"Why don't you take a handle each?" suggests Aunty Stella helpfully.   But now Strawberry has punched Phoebles on the nose and they are both sulking.
The lanes teem with life.   Black and white ships' cats wander in and out of passageways, up and down alleys, sit on dustbins.   Their fellow sailors roll along as if still on the ocean, Russians and Norwegians, scrubbed-pink Dutchmen, lascars and chinese.    A whaler pushes by covered in tattoos and carrying his harpoon.   Beneath each cast-iron and fluted street-corner lamp, bathed in it's weak, jaundiced light, loiter ladies of the night and pleasure kittens.   Eyeing them from across cobbled, slop drenched cart-ways, groups of trawlermen in their shore suits of powder blue or mauve, flared trousers with turn-ups, drape jackets with velvet cuffs and half-moon pockets.   A handful of corsairs with hooped ear-rings and bandanas lurch across our path from out of the doorway of a noisy ale house.
Bumped and banged, pushed and shoved, down this passage, under this arch, across this yard, barely keeping the wildly cycling Snowdrop in sight, our party proceeds until we are outside a ramshackle old grey-brick building.   "Cirque des Absurdités" proclaims a sign and outside is parked a strange ice-cream van, its roof-rack piled high with hampers, jerry-cans, stone pop jars, cardboard suitcases and hat boxes all held in place under a cargo net.
We are met at the door by Consuella Starcluster, the famous tambourine virtuoso.
"Welcome to our absurdist vaudeville, catnip den and palace of pleasure.   Girls, feed 'em and pamper 'em.   Anyone want a litter tray?
We are confronted inside by a large baroque space, cast iron tables with marble tops, a serving hatch through to the bar and a small proscenium arched stage with faded redy, pinky, browny sort of velvety curtains.
Around the half panelled walls are leatherette covered benches.   Now seated at the tables and waited on somewhat inconsistently by the kittens we are fed and watered.   Replete and becoming drowsy in the comfortable warmth, after a long and adventurous day, we are joined by Consuella Starcluster who distributes hubble-bubbles charged with a catnip and invigorating herbal mixture.
"We'll get you all tucked up soon." she croons in a deep toned and thickly hispanic accent, "But first we must go over the plan.   The Vicecream van is all but ready for the landward assault and will depart after breakfast.   Your (she addresses Boz) crates are loaded aboard the Coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster, but it will be three tides before she is readied for sea and a full crew is not yet found.   I would suggest that on such a dangerous mission you will need someone expendable and have instructed our ageing pot-boy, Bert Wold, to settle his affairs and make ready to accompany you to sea."
It is decided that Aunty Stella, being an accomplished cat wrangler, should lead the overland rescue in the Vicecream van with the Kittens of Chaos.   Consuella kits her out in an elegant fitted great coat of sage green with brass buttons that perfectly complements her magenta hair, and she is accessorized in thigh length black boots with four inch heals, Astrakhan hat and a fur muff that looks like Blofeld's cat.   For the rest of us there are winter weight Russian telnyashkas, itchy red woollen long-johns, faux-fur lined parkas and stout Doc Martin boots.
Phoebles expresses concern regarding his untried sea-legs and is assured that there will be a more than adequate supply of ginger biscuits, at which news Ferdinand brightens no-end.
All foreseeable eventualities covered it is time for a well earned rest and we proceed upstairs to our assigned and comfortable sleeping cubicles.