A Cat Called Merlot

Thursday 23rd July 2020

On Saturday morning, I found Queenie in the bedroom, carefully spreading a layer of ‘depilatory cream’ (whatever that is), on her legs. In need of a bit of attention I rubbed myself liberally around her calves and in so doing, covered myself in white cream. To my surprise, she shot up shouting at me but ever up for a game of chase, I ran under the bed, taking no notice of her pleas for me to come out. Cat and mouse is something I love and all part of what I believe humans call “role-play” – I’m the escapee, she’s the hunter. I sprinted off and crouched behind the sofa, enjoying myself enormously. We hadn’t played this for a while, so whilst it started out as really good fun, I sensed the mood had changed, as she dragged the sofa back and, judging by the language, managed to get cream from her legs onto that too. Something told me she wasn’t really enjoying the game and so I remained where I was, thinking it might be better if I allowed her to win. Scooping me up, she marched me off to the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind her, adding a distinctly sinister dimension to the rules. I hate shut doors as they generally signify a car journey or application of a flea treatment. Placing me on the closed lid of the toilet, she started running a sponge under the tap. I’d heard about things like that in war zones and I got very nervous. “I’m sorry, Merlot but I have to wash you.” She said, determinedly. Well, THAT wasn’t going to happen as I’m quite capable of washing myself, thank you very much! Hissing at the sponge and wriggling out of her grasp, I made a dash for the closed door and hurled myself against it, wailing. “Merlot, stop it!” She said, more calmly, “If I don’t get that stuff off you, your fur will fall out and I’ll be reported to the RSPCA and that will be that.” I’m wasn’t quite sure what “that” was but it sounded quite final. 

Marcus from number 18, has a date. Queenie is almost as excited about it as if it were her. Apparently they met in the frozen isle of the local supermarket. His name is Dan and he’s Head of Fresh Produce. Not a captain of industry but better than Head of Stale Produce. They’re off out to dinner at the new, local restaurant on the beach that has just re-opened, after lockdown. Marcus, hardly a fashionista and lacking any confidence, asked Queenie what  he should wear, since he hadn’t been on a date since the early 1980’s. She told him he shouldn’t go for the favoured mirrored glasses and fake police shirts that made him look like a The Village People groupie, nor the safe cardigan and slacks that made him resemble a young Alan Bennett. They both felt something contemporary would be more appropriate and she offered to go shopping with him. As it turned out, they were gone for most of the morning and when they got back, the new Marcus, dragged shyly into the 2020’s, was transformed.  

Luke Wright-Smith from number 36 has finally escaped his perfect family and is back commuting into London. As he’d signed the opt-in form to return to work so fast, his HR department called to ask if he’d actually read it. Since then, he’s been positively skipping down the road with his new face mask, made from very-responsibly-sourced, unbleached cotton. At the station, each morning, he heads to the shop and picks up a meat pasty, sausage roll and a sugar-laden latte. Before he boards the train, he deposits his wife Saffron’s tofu-based salad lunch (designed to ward off any free-radicals) in the nearest bin. For Luke, whose generally very compliant, that’s radical!

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