A CAT CALLED MERLOT

Thursday 28th January 2021

On Friday I got taken to the vets for my annual check up and vaccination. I have to admit, the lady vet and I are now getting on like a mouse on fire. I behaved impeccably and tolerated the squeezing of my abdomen, tooth check and the general root around, quite calmly. When I was handed back, the vet told Queenie I’d been very good and hadn’t bitten her once. Queenie beamed like a proud mother who’s son had just got straight A’s. When we got home, I got a treat, so it was all worth it. Later, as I wandered down a few gardens to see what was going on in some of the houses, I found out that Alfred had had his COVID Jab that morning and so, we sat in quiet companionship by the fire while we shared his lunch of fresh prawns and crackers. 

On Saturday morning, the police were called to Number 29 to investigate a break in. As it turned out, not an awful lot was taken, just a small amount of cash and a couple of Sheridan’s paintings but quite traumatised, he told the masked policeman that his works of art were “priceless”. Gary said to  his wife Laura that while he understood it was highly unpleasant being burgled, the paintings were hardly “priceless” as he had a label on them with the price! That probably fooled the burglar into thinking he’d got something valuable, so clearly the police shouldn’t be looking for an art connoisseur. Sheridan however was heard outside the house, demanding they were featured on Crimewatch. Meanwhile grateful for a distraction from the mundane, Fernanda settled down to write a poem about their ordeal. 

Marjorie and I decided to have a trot down to the fishmonger’s late on Saturday afternoon. Mr Pollock was busy in his shop, washing down the empty trays of delicious smelling fish that sent Marjorie into a virtual sensory coma. In the cold room at the back of the shop, he kept a large bucket of fish heads, to make stock, which proved irresistible to her. Before I could intervene, she crept in, seduced by the heady aroma. From outside the shop, I could see Mr Pollock taking the money from the till and pulling out his keys to lock up. Frantically, I looked for Marjorie to warn her but she was nowhere to be seen and I had no alternative but to slip in and find her. Distracted by his mobile, Mr Pollock had his back to the door and so I dashed to the rear of the shop and spotted Marjorie with her paw dangling in the tantalising bucket of fish heads. “Come on, we need to get out of here, he’s locking up!” I hissed but it was too late. I heard the sound of the door closing and suddenly the place was silent and in darkness, save for the orange glow from the street lamp through a tiny window about three metres above us and the hum of the walk-in refrigerator in the room beyond.