A Cat Called Merlot

Tuesday 2nd June 2020

Queenie’s mother, Lydia, emerges from lockdown and is ready to party. Free-spirited Lydia was a hippy in the sixties and she owns a camper van, in which she still travels, when allowed. At seventy, she retains that feline sense of non-conformity. When I jump over the wall, I see her van is back on the drive, the dashboard adorned with orange plastic flowers which is, no doubt, a tribute to one of the (many) religions she’s flirted with during her life. Queenie won’t be thrilled, as she agreed with her twin brother: Hari Heavenly Moon (changed by Deed Poll as soon as he reached 18, to Stephen) the break from their mother was one of the few positives about lockdown. I, on the other hand, rather like her as she’s extremely entertaining. I brace myself and enter the back garden to the inevitable squeal of joy as I’m scooped up in bangled arms, covered in patchouli-scented kisses and spoken to in a silly voice. It’s worth the indignity as she’s brought treats and feeds them to me like I’m a slot-machine, telling Queenie she’s on her way to Hyde park to join ‘a demonstration’. Queenie points out whilst she has utmost sympathy with the cause, there is a pandemic and she’s 70. Lydia waves her hand dismissively, telling her she’s demonstrated all her life and whatever this one’s about (she’s not entirely sure as the batteries in her radio have died), it’s her duty to join in. In any event, she has a couple of friends who are going. 

Meanwhile, I begin to feel a little bit sick but it would be rude to refuse yet another tasty pocket, filled with cheese. I know if it continues, she’ll hit the jackpot and I’ll have to run from the garden, into the middle of the living room carpet and vomit. Queenie must be reading my mind as she suggests Lydia stops “stuffing those things” into me. This results in the usual plea to her daughter not to be so ‘uptight’ as she gazes at me adoringly and coos, “He’s such a gorgeous boy, he deserves a treat!” I can’t argue with that but there’s an unpleasant contraction beginning in my stomach and, finally, making choking sounds, I have to make a dash. There’s an expletive as Queenie pursues me into the flat and makes a grab for the kitchen roll. “Oh dear,” calls  Lydia, from her deck chair, “Naughty boy must have eaten a mouse or something!”

I heard on the news earlier today, we are having difficulty reaching agreement with the Economic Union on post-Brexit fishing rights. I assume this titbit was the Government ‘throwing a dead cat on the table’ to try and divert the news away from a visually compromised advisor going out for a long test drive, to a Durham beauty spot. Fisheries policy is obviously a matter close to cats’ hearts. I’m keeping an eye on developments and hoping Queenie will continue to stockpile tins of tuna, alongside other essentials such as hair dye and mascara.

The new COVID Test & Trace system is being rolled out later than the country anticipated, to a mixed reception from the general public. There are those that don’t mind having their data very ‘reliably’ stored by the Government and other ‘conspiracy theorists’ who seem to think it might interfere with them committing murder, having affairs, drug dealing, nicking cars and indulging in other nefarious activities like having more than six of one’s friends and relatives round for a game of Sardines, in a phone box. I don’t know why they don’t just GPS microchip humans at birth and cut the debate…