Author: paula.napier

Thursday 30th July 2020

This week I was told to be on my best behaviour, as Queenie was on her second date with someone called Nick. He described himself in his website profile as ‘Hedonistic artist with a VGSOH, penchant for long romantic dinners and log fires’. What’s VGSOH and WHO uses the word ‘penchant’? I hated him immediately. He arrived half an hour late and was a bit scruffy and I think he still had the residue of his ‘art’ under his finger nails. I sat on the chair opposite and stared at him, with distaste. With a nervous laugh, he described me as intense and said it’s a shame he couldn’t give me a pat as he’s a bit allergic to cats. He didn’t mention that in his profile! Jubilantly, I moved to sit next to him when Queenie went off to get drinks, so he promptly got up and moved to another chair. I followed, enjoying myself. He made a flapping motion with his hands, mouthing something that ended in ‘off’, whilst looking over his shoulder to make sure Queenie had’t heard. Game on! I jumped on the back of his chair and rubbed myself round his head, purring. In response he leapt up and sprinted to the farthest corner of the room, frantically searching his pockets for his inhaler. By the time Queenie returned with the drinks, Nick, ashen faced and without any sign of VGSOH, wheezed something about being sorry but ‘it probably wasn’t going to work’ and, to Queenie’s evident surprise, he departed. 

Liam O’Brien lives at number 33. Originally from County Cork, he’s certainly lived his life. Three or four lives probably and all very different. He owns the antique / bric-a-brac shop in town and he’s always involved in some scam or another. Sometimes I go and sit in his shop, among the clutter and smell of damp, to enjoy the latest one. As ever, I was rewarded because on Wednesday morning, I found him telling a customer how he’d just got back from a three-week trip to Russia, returning with  a consignment of priceless bronze figures, purchased from an oligarch in Vladivostok. That confused me as I know for a fact, he hasn’t been away, apart from a brief trip in his van, to a house clearance in Gateshead. Drawn in by the improbable tale, the customer eventually purchased one and he’d not got as far as the A27 before he noticed an arm had fallen off it. On his return, Liam (mortified) said the problem was, you couldn’t trust a Russian, look at Salisbury! 

On Monday morning, Queenie received a call from her mother, Lydia who had been detained at Bow Street Police Station, to say her camper van had been towed away and could she use Queenie’s credit card to liberate it? She’d tried Queenie’s brother Stephen but he seemed to have problems with his phone as it kept going dead. Apparently she’d been arrested for disorderly conduct in Hyde Park: Firstly for blocking in three crowd control police vans because “there was a lovely space right next to the park” and secondly chaining herself to the leg of a mounted police officer singing “We Shall Not Be Moved” whilst shouting at the handful of otherwise peaceful climate protesters, “Come on you lot, put some effort in! Follow me, I was at Greenham Common!” After an afternoon in the cells, she was released with a caution.

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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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Thursday 16th July 2020

There was a lack of activity in the gardens on Tuesday, so I popped in to see Alfred, who was looking through photos and reminiscing about his time during the war. He was playing a Dame Vera Lynn record on his battered player. It was a bit scratchy but the wistful look in his eyes said it all. He told me while he was eating his normal lamb chop lunch, how life was simpler then and people weren’t lonely. “It’s hard, Merlot,” he said, pointing his fork at me, “When everyone you grew up with is gone and all you have left are memories but we have to be grateful for small things.” Like tinned pilchards, I thought. 

Queenie and I were watching TV this afternoon, and she was having a good old rant about journalism and bias. I think I could do a good job of running the BBC – British Broadcasting Cat! Has a ring to it, don’t you think? I wouldn’t even have to change the logo so that’s an immediate cost saving. There’d need to be a few changes, of course: lots more fishing documentaries, Big Cat Diary would obviously be changed to Merlot’s Blog and we’d show classic films like Of Mice and Men. 

This week, my nemesis the car, apparently needed a new set of window wipers to keep it on the road.  I’d much prefer it if it stayed on the driveway, permanently. Queenie, who hates spending money on it, called the garage yesterday for a quote:-

Queenie “Hello, I need a set of new window wipers”

Garage “Of course. What’s the make of your car?”

She gives the required information.

Garage “That will be £39.99 plus vat and fitting…”

Queenie – “Do you have just the rubber and stainless steel version?”

Garage – (Pause) “I’m sorry what do you mean?”

Queenie – “Rather than the gold-plated-eyelashes-of-endangered-species version, fitted by an ordinary mortal, as opposed to a wiper specialist flown in from another galaxy?”

Garage – “That is the standard product. The endangered species range has been discontinued as we can’t get the parts and the space craft is in for a service.”

Touché!

Sheridan Thomas and his Brazilian partner Fernanda, live at number 29. He’s an abstract artist and she’s a poet. Their relationship is quite volatile but I suppose being artistic that’s only to be expected. Yesterday, from a few gardens down, I could hear them shouting at each other after which, he stomped off to his studio and did a very angry canvas with lots of black and red sloshes of paint, whilst she wrote a poem about a woman doing away with her husband and burying him in the garden. I thought that was quite impressive, as I don’t think an awful lot rhymes with “beneath the patio”. 

This morning I went down to see Lola, who was wearing a new bright pink diamanté collar. Personally, I felt it looked a bit trashy, like the feline equivalent of a vajazzle. I thought if I took her for a romantic walk through the shrubbery, we might be able to lose it on a twig but it ended badly with her moaning about getting her fur messed up. In silence I walked her home and went back to Queenie who is less high-maintenance…normally. 

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Thursday 9th July 2020

I spent a bit of time this week observing dogs and their owners in the park at the end of our road and concluded, once again, Dogs are not self-motivated creatures. They need to be taken for a walk and have sticks or a ball thrown for them so they can get praised when they bring it back to their owner. I mean, really? If a human threw a stick for a cat and expected them to ‘fetch’ it, we’d just give them a look that said, “I’m not your slave. You want it, you get it yourself and STOP keep doing it!” If I could give dogs a bit of advice, I’d tell them to get a grip, stop being so submissive and just be more cat!

Our postman, Ken, is not the fabled friendly chap, with a black and white cat, who waves cheerfully, as he delivers the mail. I don’t think he likes his job much as he scowls at everyone and moans if people aren’t in, as he has to fill out a card. Today, from my vantage point on a neighbour’s shed, I spotted him giving a sneaky two fingered salute to Jeff at number 29 when, as he was in his car and on his way out, he asked him politely to drop his parcel at the back door of his house. Ken does however seem to be keen Mrs Waters, at number 21 who answers her door in various stages of undress. She always seems to be in the shower when the postman calls and he seems to find any excuse to ring the bell and make sure she gets her post. All I can say is, given the unpredictability of deliveries, she must be very clean.

On Sunday, I realised Queenie was hormonal because, normally fairly balanced, I heard her on the phone telling a friend how, given the chance, she’d quite happily taser anyone who tried to get through the door to her office! On Monday morning she went to work in odd colour shoes and misplaced the car…twice. I twigged we were about to encounter a difficult week when she drank lots of red wine, ate a family size tub of ice cream in one sitting and sobbed at a house renovation programme. Of course, I sympathise but I’m a bit out of my depth.  All I could think of was distraction, so I kept trying to sit on the remote control to surreptitiously change channel, as there was a rather good Attenborough documentary I wanted to watch about birds. Unfortunately, she kept snatching the remote and putting it out of my way. Slightly irritated, I would have like to have suggested that if she really wanted something to cry about, she should watch the news. Finally, puffy-eyed she stomped off to bed with a bar of chocolate and the rest of the wine under her arm. 

On Tuesday evening, after several lapses in self-control and hormone levels clearly sea-sawing uncontrollably, Queenie decided radical action was necessary in regard to her COVID stash of biscuits and chocolates. Half-heartedly filling a large carrier bag, wavering over a vast selection of biscuits, that went in and out of the bag like the hokey cokey, she marched purposefully down the street to donate them to the homeless man who lives in the park. If nothing else I thought, he’ll get a massive sugar-rush. I trotted along behind for moral support and we found Gideon Longfellow, reading ‘War & Peace’, outside the folly he’s made his temporary home. He has a PhD in science but had a difficult relationship with alcohol which resulted in him losing his job and family. He looks up and greets us, his walnut skin and twinkly blue eyes making his beard look even whiter. Smiling, he thanks Queenie and says whilst he hasn’t got much of a sweet tooth himself, he’ll keep them for her, in case of a relapse. I raise an eyebrow and by ten that evening, she was back up the road, with a torch, to retrieve a packet of bourbons. 

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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Thursday, June 25th, 2020

On Saturday there was an unfamiliar man in my garden! Well, I say unfamiliar but Queenie’s been chatting to him online for several weeks now, for hours…and hours.  She was very excited to meet him as she thinks they have potential. For a while, in the garden, they were observing social distancing but it was only a matter of time I figured, until there was a breach. His name is Pete; he has three grown up children and an ex-wife who never really understood him. He works as an accountant, so that really says it all and he brought Queenie ‘garage flowers’. So, true to his profession, he’s very carefully managing his expenditure. I was sitting under a bush for a good hour, observing and formulating my strategy of how to play things. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered as he quickly machine-gunned himself in the foot with a comment about meeting women in the flesh and how social media can make people look so “different”. Unfortunately he didn’t stop there and went on to give Queenie a wink (yes a wink), saying it didn’t matter as he liked “curvy women” which I believe is just another way of inferring someone is “overweight”. Social distancing suddenly became en trend again, as she very rapidly showed him to his shiny company car and shoved his cheap bouquet through the window. I take it we won’t be buying a hat!

The Chihuahua at the end of the road describes herself as “Woke”.  She’s always at the gate yapping in a passive-aggressive kind of way that makes reasonable debate impossible. Whilst I have sympathy for some of what she has to say, I feel she sucks the fun out of life and, after an altercation as I attempted to get through her garden without her seeing me, we clashed about dog licences, during which she yapped at me that on the “woke scale” I’m “barely conscious.” Rude!

Mike Jones at Number 5 likes to occasionally dress as a woman. He’s exploring his identity later in life and more publicly. His wife Jackie, has adjusted well to the change but she told her sister on the phone she’s never quite sure who she’s coming home to: Mike in a dress or Mike dressed as the version of Mike she married. Her main bone of contention seems to be he’s suddenly taking up far more wardrobe space than is reasonable. I’ve had a mooch round the house and she has a point. Jackie’s currently busying herself with working her way through the large number of non-binary descriptors available on various search engines but Mike’s told her not to bother, as he doesn’t wish to be pigeon-holed. Jackie’s sister tells her she’s “Lucky she’s got someone sensible to go clothes shopping with and what about that lovely potter who wears those gorgeous dresses and big bows? Perhaps Mike will discover his inner artist?” Jackie snorts and responds that she didn’t think occasionally dressing as a woman and subsequently finding one is gifted, necessarily went hand in hand and, since Mike’s never shown any interest in, or talent for art, he was “hardly likely to get up one morning, grab some clay and knock up a masterpiece!”

This week, as the weather has turned hot, I couldn’t sleep and given it’s light for most of the time, I fancied a bit of nocturnal company. So, every night, I’ve been trying to breach Queenie’s closed bedroom door. She let me in for a while last night, with a caution about “settling down” but it all went badly, as she claimed I fidgeted all night, took up most of the bed and snored. I heard her telling Marcus Briggs it was worse than being married… 

Thursday 18th June 2020

Queenie’s spent most of the afternoon on-line, in a bad mood, frantically sourcing hair extensions, having given herself a COVID-cut. There’s no prospect of getting an appointment with her hairdresser until Christmas and she has a date next week.  Human hair is odd as it just grows in clumps in parts of the body, rather than evenly all over, like ours. Their obsession with hair is perplexing. I don’t understand why, like cats, they don’t have a good seasonal moult. They also seem permanently dissatisfied with hair colour and they keep changing it. In my opinion if you’re born a Tabby (with natural streaks), you don’t aspire to become a British Blue! 

Hector Crosby, who lives next door to us, has grey, tight curly hair and a sunny disposition. On Sundays, his beloved wife, Martha, normally goes to church but at present, because of being classed as ‘at risk’, she’s still getting spiritual nourishment on-line. As the weather was lovely on Sunday, Hector and I hung out at the end of his garden and he described, once again, his childhood on the island of St Lucia. He told me he came over as part of  ‘Windrush’ but apparently he wasn’t treated very well when he arrived and he hated the cold weather. I find it sad anyone could treat Hector badly. We sat in a dappled spot, under his apple tree and listen to the sound of Miles Davis wafting out from the battered record player he keeps in his brightly painted shed. It’s really all very relaxing. Hector is partial to a tot or two of rum and, by the time Martha logs off from The Lord, spiritually cleansed, Hector is uplifted by spirit of a wholly different kind. At one o’clock, it was time for lunch and he loosely wove his way back up the garden, in carnival mode and playing air trumpet, to be greeted by a shrill  admonishment from the depths of the kitchen. There was absolutely no point in me hanging around by the back door, in anticipation of a treat, as Martha’s belief system doesn’t extend to cats.

Yesterday afternoon, a pair of crows were going mental in next door’s wild garden. They were defending their nest against a magpie that had breached their territory. I was hiding under Queenie’s deckchair as it was all kicking off and nobody sane would risk trying to break it up. As they’re so pre-occupied with flapping and screeching, it was a hunting opportunity but I’ve been on the receiving end of a big, angry bird more than once and frankly, as Matt at Number 20 would doubtless tell me (from the safety of the pub), “Mate, it just ain’t worth it!” 😉 

This morning, Queenie’s mother, Lydia, left a voice message to see if she could “be in her COVID bubble?”.  She said she was already in six other bubbles up and down the country and wasn’t it fun? Queenie told her brother, Stephen, that Lydia was treating it like an Ibiza foam party! 

BIG news this week: Lola and I are back on! She hopped over the wall on Wednesday, looking glorious in the only way a tabby can and apologised for her behaviour. Head and heart parted company and I forgave her. Queenie was out, so we went back to mine, shared some cat-nip and chilled out, listening to Cat Stevens.  

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Thursday June 11th 2020 

With the relaxation of lock-down, Queenie has shopped online for emergency, temporary trousers, due to overindulgence during COVID. Apparently, this involves buying cheaper garments in the size above her “normal” one so she can continue to breathe, until she loses weight. She’s quite relieved she hasn’t yet managed to meet any of the men she’s been talking to online, as it gives her time to get rid of her ‘excess’  and at least be able to view her feet once again, from a standing position. Online, she’s positioned the camera so that she’s only visible above her waist and is a bit worried that the ten year old profile photo of herself she posted, was perhaps stretching the truth. “Never mind, Merlot,” she says, giving me a wink, “I’ll wing it with extra cleavage!”

Marcus Briggs from Number 18 is at home, as usual. He’s semi-retired but works part-time as a web site designer. Lockdown hasn’t made much difference to him, as he doesn’t go out much, anyhow. I go and visit him quite regularly, when I want quiet, gentle company and I know he likes me to pop in. He picks me up and gives me a kiss on the top of the head, which I tolerate. Normally, Queenie is the only person who has that privilege, or her mother Lydia, who’s as potty as a gerbil on a wheel. Marcus’s house is straight out of the nineteen eighties, which was when his partner Reggie passed away from AIDS and Marcus’s life came to a standstill. He has a particular liking for pastel fabrics, arum lilies and uplighter lamps. Normally, we sit in the living room, on the white leather sofa and listen to Judy Garland tracks while he sobs to “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” It brings a lump to my throat but I’m never sure how to deal with raw, human emotion. Dogs, who love to absorb human misery, are much better at outward displays of empathy. I sit next to him and awkwardly stretch my paw out and rest it on his knee, making sure my claws are retracted. He sniffs, blows his nose noisily and says, “Okay Merlot, this won’t get the roast done will it?”  We both cheer up enormously, when the chicken emerges, like magic from the oven and we tuck in. Marcus is wearing his favourite t shirt, with the words “Choose Life” on it, which is a little ironic, as he’s all but given up on it himself. He and Queenie are however good friends and pre-COVID, she would go and spend evenings with him, watching Cagney & Lacy and M*A*S*H DVD’s, getting drunk on Alabama Slammer cocktails and eating Vienetta ice cream. I’d always wait up to make sure she got home safely and generally found her staggering down the road around midnight, falling into hedges and crashing into wheelie bins. 

Aircraft have been in the news again, this week. Personally, I’m not unhappy planes have been grounded and hotels shut, as I always associate them with suitcases and the dreaded cattery. I think however, I’ve managed to kick that into the long grass as I’ve as good as been invited NOT to go back to the local, deluxe one with its heated-pens-overlooking-a-large-fish-pond. Queenie tried me there shortly after I moved in with her but I wasn’t on my best behaviour whilst she was away as I spat at every cat that went past my pen. 

“He’s quite vocal, isn’t he?” Commented the cat-loving owner, who within a week, had developed bags under his eyes and looked as though he’d aged by a decade. As he sprinted over-enthusiastically to the office to get my basket he called, over his shoulder, “He cried for the entire time you were away!” A bit of an exaggeration I felt, despite the fact that by the end of it, I’d completely lost my voice. 

“He might be happier with someone coming into his own home to feed him?” He suggested, as I slinked into the basket, whilst Queenie paid the bill. 

I don’t know if it was my imagination but I could swear I heard the sound of a cork popping out of a bottle, the chink of glasses and a cheer from the other cat pens, as we reversed away from the cattery, back down the drive. As I sat quietly in my basket, Queenie gave me a reassuring stroke through the grill on the front. I wished I could have told her I’d have behaved better if I’d known she’d return for me.

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… 

Thursday 28th May 2020

The newly opened cat cafe in the next road, called “Mr Mistoffel-Teas”, has imported a dozen homeless cats to live-in and entertain the clients. It’s the feline equivalent, I believe, of a ‘lap dancing club’: Punters pay on the door, choose their favourite and entice them onto their laps with treats, whilst they enjoy a beverage. It’s pure exploitation if you ask me! As I was walking past the other day, I thought I saw a reflection of myself in the window but it turned out to be a mini-me, nose pressed up to the glass, waving madly. I ignored it and walked on, slightly shaken. There’s no way anyone’s going to pin a paternity suit on me! Those days are long gone, since I was abducted and taken to the vet at the Rescue Centre. As I recall, there was no discussion; one minute I was happily populating the area, the next I awoke with a sense of loss, followed by a very nasty shock, when I was having a wash! This evening, the residents of Victoria Avenue go outside once more, at 8pm, to clap the NHS and other key workers, maybe for the last time. As far as the cats around here are concerned, I’d like to make it clear there will be NO applause EVER for vets!

Whilst we’re on a medical theme, I have to tell you I love the doctor’s surgery at the end of the road. There’s always interesting things to listen to, especially during summer. When the weather’s good, the windows are open and I can sit on the sill outside the consulting rooms. Recently, they’ve been doing mainly telephone consultations but on Tuesday, the masked GP had a live patient in the surgery.  After having a prod around, the GP announced she wanted to send him for a CAT scan but there was a long waiting list at the hospital. I was about to knock on the window and offer to run my eyes over him, when the fire alarm went off and everyone got thrown out of the building. After that, the carefully planned one way system fell apart, as there’d been no ‘Social Distancing Evacuation Practice’. SAGE clearly hadn’t written guidance!

The big black and white cat from next door has been winding me up a treat this week. He has no idea of cat protocol and just marches through my garden as though he owns it. I call him ‘Officer Dribble’ as he only has a few teeth and an air of misplaced authority. I found the tooth thing out when I was having a spat with him, during which, I got drenched in saliva and feared I would get gummed to death. He does however have a mean right paw and it left me on a course of antibiotics, shortly after I moved in. I owe him.

Queenie is erm “working from home” and is in the garden. Whilst she’s having a snooze in the sunshine, with her mouth wide open, I take the opportunity to jump onto YOWL and see if I can spot Lola. She claims she’s not been on the App since she met me. However, I have my suspicions she’s not being truthful so I have a quick look, just to put my mind at rest but there she is, bold as you like! Doubtless she’s having a good old swipe left and right. I’m gutted so I jump miserably onto Queenie’s lap, looking for consolation.

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