A Cat Called Merlot

Thursday 2nd July 2020

On Tuesday, I heard Queenie explaining to Hector, next door, why I’m called Merlot. She decided when she collected me from the rescue centre, being a single woman, she couldn’t shout down the garden ‘Colin’ or ‘Dave’, as it could cause awkwardness with neighbours’ husbands. She thought, given her love of wine, Merlot would be perfect and being an optimist, when she called me in, there was always a possibility that someone might sling a bottle of red over the garden fence! On that basis, given her addiction to biscuits, I suppose I’m lucky she didn’t name me ‘Jammy Dodger’. 

Queenie’s mother, Lydia arrived last Saturday with a Hells Angel called Roger, who she met in a lay-by on the A1. Queenie’s face was a picture. He got out of the camper van and, despite the heat, he was dressed head to toe in leather that creaked when he walked. He also had a massive beard and moustache that hid his mouth. Fascinated, I wondered if there was anything living in it, so I climbed onto the arm of the chair to have a good look and decided to stay around, as the potential for entertainment had just shot through the roof. Apparently, they were passing through, en route to one of Lydia’s bubble-friends who managed a band and owned an estate in Berkshire. He was holding a large, alternative Glastonbury party. Queenie stated that going to mass gatherings wasn’t following Government guidelines, to which Lydia retorted, “Nobody went in for all that nonsense,” and told her to “look at the beaches.” In any event, she said,“The guests were all taking their own wellington boots and a bottle of vodka as a sanitiser, so they should be fine!” Queenie told her she didn’t think a pair of wellies would protect them from COVID! Lydia pointed out it was the countryside and it had worked perfectly well during Foot and Mouth. Queenie called her brother Stephen when they’d gone and told him she thought they’d be okay, as no self-respecting virus would go near the pair of them.

Maria Bianchi, a mad Italian woman, lives at number 42. She screams at me whenever I get caught short on her flower bed. What is one to do? On Sunday, she waddled out with a water pistol and waved it vaguely in my direction. Her aim was however rubbish and I got to finish, at my leisure, before jumping on the wall. Shaking her fist, she shouted a stream of abuse in Italian, that somehow still sounded quite lovely, like opera. It would be nice to politely point out we have to do our business somewhere and unlike the unmentionables, at least we bury it and don’t expect humans to pick it up, pop it in a bag and lug it home. Anyhow, I digress; Maria made her way back in, giving the water pistol a right old dressing down for malfunction. As the door banged behind her, the smell of food wafted out from the house and the evening air was suffused with garlic and herbs. I’d like to try some but on balance, an invitation to dinner isn’t looking likely, any time soon. I’m not sure whether it’s true but it’s said her garlic-filled scraps once cured a fox’s mange, after he scavenged in her bin. 

This afternoon, I took Lola a dead mouse as a token of my love. I don’t really go in for hunting and prefer to outsource it, these days. Officer Dribble next door somehow managed to catch it and when he wasn’t looking, I pinched it and trotted off. Lola wasn’t in and so I left it on the mat by the back door, as a mice (yes, I know!), surprise. Unfortunately, it turned into a bit of a drama when her owner, Samantha, bare footed, trod on it and ran down the garden, hopping from one foot to another, screaming she had squashed mouse on her foot. 

Tired, I wandered home and sat on Queenie’s lap and before we both knew it, a very nice hour had passed.

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