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Thursday 5th August 2021

As I paced up and down the road, mind racing, I saw Kes walking quickly in my direction, calling my name. I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable and was about to jump over the wall but something about her voice made me stop.

  “I saw them, Merlot!” She said, looking down at me, her brow puckered into a deep frown.

A sense of relief that a human who might actually be able to help, had witnessed Marjorie’s abduction flowed over me and temporarily masked the burning pain in my ribs. 

  “Don’t worry, I know where they live. They come from a local estate. I rented there for a while but it was too awful. Lots of rough people doing drugs and stuff. It was so bad, I decided the streets along the sea front were safer.”

I stared up at her, my eyes pleading for her to help me get Marjorie back. Perhaps she’d go and tell the police that drove around in their white cars that made the terrible noise. 

The only estate I knew was a fair walk from The Avenue and there were stories about the feral gangs of cats that roamed round it. None of the cats around here ever went there. I recalled the man who’d thrown Marjorie into the truck telling his mates that he could “get rid” of Marjorie, “quickly” and my heart sank. Even if the police could be encouraged to find the men, they might be too late. Kes however, must have read my mind as she said, “Come on Merlot, let’s go find Marjorie!” And she turned and began to walk quickly down the road. I trotted behind, ignoring the pain and the prospect of getting assaulted again. 

We walked for what seemed like a long way, cutting across the fields that led away from the beach. As I began to slow, Kes picked me up and carried me for a while and I let her, grateful for the rest. Eventually I could see houses in the distance and a fast, main road running in front of them. We crossed it quickly and turned left into an alley that was full of litter and had writing on the walls. “I’ll not put you down yet,” said Kes, “In this place you could end up with a needle in your paw and then where would we be?”

I assumed the Vets and that added another dimension to an already awful day. I noticed how Kes’s body language changed as soon as we reached the estate. Her muscles tensed and she moved quickly and cautiously, like a wild animal. At the end of the alley she stopped. “I can see you’re in pain but I hope you’re ok to walk now, Merlot. If I carry you, we’ll draw attention to ourselves and we need to blend in. Just follow me but keep a bit of distance. Don’t go near anyone, you hear?” Gently she lifted me to the ground, “And don’t get lost!” 

Thursday 29th July 2021

It’s been the most distressing week. Marjorie’s inquisitive nature got her into trouble again and as I write, I’m not sure it will end well. I blame myself, as I completely forgot to warn her about the rough gardeners. Just after lunch yesterday, they were working in the front of the Doctors’ Surgery, cutting back some overgrown shrubs and laughing and swearing as usual. When Alfred passed with his shopping and shook his head with disapproval, they laughed scornfully, shouting very disrespectfully after him, “What’s up old-fella? Aren’t you liking the banter?”

As it was hot and I needed a drink of water, I went home and was only gone for a couple of minutes. When I returned, I spotted one of the men crouched down, talking to Marjorie in a low voice and stroking her along her back with his rough hand as if she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. She must have turned up while I was indoors, and witnessing this, I sensed danger. The fur on the back of my neck stood up as I realised the risk she was taking in being anywhere near him. Instantly, I went to cross the road to warn her but a car was coming and I had to wait. In those few seconds, I saw the man look furtively around and when he thought nobody was watching, he grabbed her by the scruff of her poor neck, dropping her, protesting, into a wire cage under a tarpaulin in the back of their truck. Horrified, I flew over to try and get into the back of the vehicle but another of the men struck me, roughly, with his boot mumbling, “We don’t need that one, it’s not pedigree. The other one will fetch a good amount though and I reckon I’ve got just the customer. They’re looking for one to breed from and we can get rid of it quickly. Come on let’s go and get the cat offloaded before someone hears it!” With that, he threw his spade into the back of the truck and the other two followed. I could hear Marjorie crying out in the back but I just couldn’t get to her as the sides were too high. Beside myself with horror, I ran to the end of the road and watched as the truck, music blaring out of the window, turn left at the end of The Avenue and disappear in a haze of blue, exhaust smoke. Winded from the man’s boot, I made my way back down the road, my head spinning and very frightened for Marjorie.

Marjorie is home! She dropped over the wall on Saturday evening, just before dusk and told me all about her holiday. Apparently, the cottage Judith had rented, was in the countryside and there was great scope for hunting. Marjorie managed a frog, three birds and a goldfish which is impressive by any cat standards. Judith’s sister visited and there was lots of gossip and seemingly endless hours of cross stitch, as they caught up on family news. Marjorie said she missed me and wouldn’t it be nice if next year I was allowed to go too? I wasn’t sure about that, as half a mile in a car makes me hysterical and watching all that needlework would send me into a coma. In any case, who would keep control of my garden while I was away? But to keep Marjorie happy I agreed it was a lovely idea and hoped she’d forget about it. Giving her a quick, appreciative lick behind the ear, I suggested we had a stroll down to the sea front for a scoop of Rodent Ripple to celebrate her return and on the way, pay a quick visit to Mikey, the young Tabby I’d adopted. 

We could see through the window of Mr Mistoffle-Teas that Mikey was having a fight with one of the other cats on a large cat tree. I tapped on the window and gave him a stern look. Unfortunately, while he was distracted, the other cat managed an unfair swipe and Mikey did a double summersault off the tree, onto a nearby sofa in a movement worthy of an olympic gold. With what I felt was an heroic recovery, he got up, shrugged and came to the window as good natured as ever. “That’s my boy!” I thought proudly before reminding myself that actually, he wasn’t. 

Mike and Jackie Jones son, Dylan (Number 5) has finished university. He arrived home almost transparently thin and spent the first week in bed, suffering from ‘extreme exhaustion’. Despite the heat, Mike, who was mowing the lawn in a lovely floral shift dress and white pumps, told Queenie he thought there genuinely had to have been a mix up at the hospital at his birth as he just wasn’t like anyone else in the family. It was, he said, like having “a weird nocturnal pet” that took up space, cost you money and gave nothing back. Queenie asked if Dylan was depressed, to which Mike responded that he didn’t think so but he was making Jackie lose the will to live. In order to engage in any communication, they had to enter his bedroom and control their gag reflex, while navigating piles of dirty clothes and petri-dish plates, to find him buried somewhere under a slowly disintegrating duvet, illuminated only by the dubious light of social media. At the suggestion from Mike that he might like to get up and find work, he said he was mining crypto currency and in any case, going out to work wouldn’t be conducive to his gaming hobby. Mike wondered if they could get him a job as an advert for birth control.

Thursday 15th July 2021

Kes was sitting outside her pod, enjoying the sunshine while hand-feeding the squirrels. I’d seen her at dusk the evening before, sitting with a fox just as if it was her pet dog and I realised she really had an affinity with wild animals, which I think is a very good sign in a human. While she was sitting there, one of the rough gardeners who are working at Number 2 went over and spoke to her and I watched as she shook her head. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I can read human body language and her’s indicated she was on ‘high alert’. He offered her a cigarette which she refused before getting to her feet and walking off. A couple of times he called after her, with his arms open but she ignored him and the other men laughed as he rejoined them. I followed Kes and found her leaning against a wall at the end of The Avenue, looking fed up. She bent down to greet me and I realised there was something quite calming about her touch. Glancing back down the road, she said, “They’re bad news, Merlot. You keep well away from them.” I’d already made up my mind to avoid them and would tell Marjorie just as soon as she came home from her week away with Judith, staying in a cottage in a place called Wales. 

On Sunday night, the gardens were filled with the sound of people shouting in dismay at their TV’s, as England played Italy in the European football final. On Monday, I paused for a  groom in Chantel and Matt’s garden (Number 20) and could hear Matt Smith saying to girlfriend Chantel that they really needed to change their young son’s name from Marcus Rashford Smith to Jesse Lingard Smith, following the missed penalty. After the match Matt spent part of the night unconscious under a holly bush, where he’d fallen on his way home from the Legless Goat pub, having consumed his own body weight in beer (to ease the disappointment). Chantel said he should concentrate on his own performance as, to her disgust, she watched him picking leaves out of his hair and observed a snail making its way out of his denim jacket pocket, onto his shoulder. She said she’d happily keep the ‘Marcus’ and ‘Rashford’ as he was an excellent role model and remove ‘Smith’! One – Nil to Chantel, I think. 

Gary from Number 11 told Queenie that Andrew from Number 30 has advertised for a female to share his bunker in the event of a global disaster. Her duties would include (but not be limited to), cooking, cleaning and playing chess. She would need to be aged 30-35, possess first class degrees in medicine, electronics and agriculture, be confident with handling weapons and look like Beyonce. Gary told Queenie that Andrew (who is 54, has hygiene issues and resembles a pregnant toad), was confident the volume of applications would take weeks to sift through. Gary asked him if he’d missed off the requirement for ‘a cracking sense of humour’ but Andrew just frowned and said that wouldn’t be necessary as there would be nothing to laugh about in a nuclear winter. Queenie said if Andrew and the bunker were the only hope of survival, she’d happily run towards the mushroom cloud!

Thursday 8th July 2021

According to the local newspaper, Barry and Christine from Number 34 had a busy weekend. After a nice lunch at the yacht club, they went out in their inflatable dingy called ‘Meringue’ and the engine conked out about two miles off-shore. Hours later they drifted into French waters and it took some convincing that they weren’t asylum seekers, looking to escape Brexit. Barry was quite shaken but Christine, topped up from her designer handbag that was filled with vodka miniatures for such an emergency, was more upset that she wasn’t allowed to visit Duty Free on the way back. 

Gideon Longfellow has a new job, working at one of the local hotels with his girlfriend, Molly. As things are going really well between them, she’s asked him to move into her flat, which means he no longer needs the Pod. The residents of The Avenue unanimously agreed it should be passed onto the young, homeless busker who plays her guitar on the pavement outside the shopping centre. Her name is Kes and she’s from a place called Liverpool. I watch her sometimes rolling tobacco into neat cigarettes, with one hand, before licking the paper with little flicks of her tongue, like a lizard. She has a bolt through her lip and one through her eyebrow. I don’t quite understand what these do and wondered if perhaps her eyebrow was falling off her forehead and her lips needed support. I discussed it with Marjorie and she said she heard a play on the radio where someone was referred to as “Loose-lipped” and on that basis, I was probably right. 

On Friday evening, Queenie her friend Michelle over for ‘cock tails’. As I’m partial to the rear end of a nice plump bird, I invited myself to join the evening. They were discussing what would make a good ‘cock tail’ and what they’d call it, for example a Marlyn Monroe which would consist of  sweet vermouth, gin, sugar, lemon juice and a large strawberry, served on ice. It would be intoxicating enough to make you feel a million dollars when you look in the mirror and disinhibited if your dress blew up in the wind to reveal big pants. I finally realised they were talking about drinks and I thought I might as well get into the swing of it and decided my favourite would be tuna can water with dash of chicken stock, a fizzy mixer, a large sprig of nip and a goldfish on a stick.  I’d call it “Cat-a-tonic”.

Last Saturday, I was strolling around the garden minding my own business when the crows from next door kicked off.  A pair of them suddenly appeared and began flying at me, trying to peck at my fur. Traumatised, I shot under one of the garden chairs to get away from them but they stood their ground and continued the intimidation until Queenie, alerted by the noise came out from the kitchen and began flapping back at them. At that point, my money was on her and sure enough, they flew off squawking all sorts of expletives. Eventually she managed to coax me out from under the chair where I pretended I was just relaxing and took me indoors. The next thing I knew, the crows were aggressing one of the fox cubs at the end of the garden, so Queenie was up and out there again, chasing them off. “I’m not,” she said to me when she returned, “The Avenue’s answer to Worzel Gummidge, so I’m ordering an owl from Amazon to keep the crows at bay.” That was a turn up for the books I thought, since I’d asked for an owl a couple of Christmases ago and didn’t get one but the crows just have to go on the attack and Queenie’s straight onto Prime. Sometimes, there’s no justice!

Things didn’t get any better. As the weather was warmer on Tuesday, I decided to stay out late instead of going home to bed with Queenie. Sitting in the porch, enjoying the moon and lost in my own thoughts, the foxes from the end of the garden arrived at two a.m. with their excitable offspring. Somehow, between them, they’d managed to catch something but it escaped under Queenie’s car. They were making a terrible racket and the cubs were running around uncontrollably. Without thinking, I decided to cut in and share a piece of the action and so I shot under the car to check out the quarry. At that point, the dog fox thought he’d try a sly left hook from the side of the car, so I retaliated with a loud protest and a swipe back at him. This must have alerted Queenie to trouble, as she flew out of the front door, barely having time to fasten her dressing gown, causing the foxes and their prey to scarper. I trotted indoors innocently and had a bite to eat, while Queenie and the rest of the neighbourhood attempted to get back to sleep. 

Unfortunately I got caught scrapping again yesterday evening when Queenie happened to be walking down the road. Harry, the big ginger cat from down the road had been rude and I just wasn’t in the mood to let his insults go. We were on the pavement having a noisy stand-off, causing pedestrians to cross over the road to avoid us, when Queenie approached. I didn’t see her until she was level with me and within a nano-second, she scooped me up and headed home, giving me a telling off. I wasn’t really listening as I was busy pointing at Harry, over her shoulder and growling “Don’t think for one minute this is over!”. Queenie deposited me in the kitchen, saying, “This isn’t your finest week, Merlot!” She was probably right but it’s been a jungle out there.

The owl arrived on Wednesday in a cardboard box that , once empty, I investigated fully. The bird is metal and about forty centimetres high and its head nods in the wind. The crows are ignoring it and I’m quite glad I didn’t get one for Christmas… 

Thursday 24th June 2021

Marjorie and I went down to the beach on Saturday where there was a real party atmosphere. A few coaches had turned up from places called Yorkshire and Newcastle. It was quite difficult to understand what some of them were saying but Marjorie seemed to be able to translate as Judith, her housekeeper, had been watching ‘Our Yorkshire Farm’ series and a vintage box set called, ‘Boys From The Black Stuff’ on TV and she said she’d picked up a bit of the language. Walking past one of the hotels on the sea front, there was a bit of a commotion at the desk. Marjorie said a customer was complaining there wasn’t enough room to “swing a cat” in their bedroom. I mean, why would you want to do that? Unless of course it’s a Northern ritual and if so, I shall keep well out of their way. 

The cat-swingers were on the beach on Sunday, looking very pink from the sun. Marjorie said it was a well known fact they only get rain up North, so they make the most of any sunshine. As we walked past a group, someone said cheerfully, “See those belta cats hinny?” pointing at us and Marjorie said, “Quick! Run for your life.” So we did and only narrowly avoided being ‘swung’ in an hotel room. 

My faith in the human race wasn’t improved by a group of rather rough men working in the gardens in our road. The word on the cat block is that they aren’t very pleasant. I’ve listened to them talking while they have their lunch break and I’m concerned for the animals in the neighbourhood. One of the men bragged that he’d stolen a puppy from a front garden and managed to get “five hundred quid for it”. I know a large box of cat food is about twelve pounds and so, I figure that’s a lot of money. He also said, “There’s money to be made in nicking pets,” and the three of them agreed. I made a note to spread the word and keep well out of their way.

The arrogant fox and his wife who live in next door’s garden have bred four very badly behaved offspring who are busily running around my garden, digging up the lawn, like they own the place. I caught Queenie the other evening giving them some of my food which subsequently caused a row between the vixen and me, on my patio, as I tried to retrieve it. Queenie rushed out to break it up, so I’m hoping the brief altercation made my feelings clear and it will be the end of the Fox Food Bank! 

Thursday 13th May

Being an unplanned, adoptive parent has given me plenty to think about over the last week and I do feel, looking in the mirror, I’ve aged. I watched Matt from Number 20 with his baby Marcus Rashford, to try and get some tips but I wasn’t sure dressing him in a football shirt and disappearing down to the pub, returning after he was in bed, was necessarily good parenting. I also observed Brian and Wendy from number 27 but all they seemed to do was argue endlessly with teenage daughter Jodie, about everything from her boyfriend Seb, to the state of her bedroom. It wasn’t selling fatherhood to me, to be honest and Brian just looked as though he was about to explode all the time which didn’t conjure up a very nice image. Marjorie told me I didn’t need to make a meal of it; all I needed to do was go and chat to him every so often and show I cared. It seemed good advice, as I couldn’t really do much more since he wasn’t allowed out. I couldn’t exactly teach him hunting or fishing, which is just as well really as I’m not that good at either! 

Andrew from Number 30 has been digging up his mother Elsie’s entire garden to become a ‘sort of’ Survivalist. He told Gary from Number 11 that he needed more underground storage for his ammunition. People, he said, tapping the side of his nose and with a wild look in his eyes, would try to break into his bunker when disaster struck and he would be ready to defend it. Ideally he said, he’d like to live completely ‘off grid’ and given the speed of his internet, on most days, it feels like he already is. On Thursday he had a delivery of fifteen crates of baked beans to put in his cellar. Gary said it shouldn’t be an explosion from outside he should be worrying about. 

On Tuesday, a group of residents from the Last Gasp care home were taken by mini bus, to the local garden centre, for their first allowed visit out for over a year. When the accompanying nurse went for a comfort break, the group absconded to the pub next door and staged a ‘sit in’ in the pub garden while ordering several rounds of gin. What’s the point of taking us to a garden centre, they said, when ‘we’ve no gardens anymore’? Fair point, I thought. After about two hours, the seven of them were very jolly and it took nearly forty minutes to get them back safely onto the mini bus with the nurse repeatedly muttering “The Last Gasp isn’t insured for this kind of anarchy and due to your uncontrollable behaviour you’ve all missed afternoon tea and a Fondant Fancy!” They didn’t look like they cared too much and in any case, he was drowned out by the singing and distracted by someone throwing Werther’s Originals at the back of his head, while he was trying to reverse. 

Thank you so much for following my stories. From today, I’m going to take a little break from writing my diary as I need to think of some more adventures and songs but I plan to be back very soon! 

Thursday 6th May 2021

On Friday, Luigi and his gang of seagulls were dumpster-diving in the bins in a seedy alley at the back of the Chinese restaurant in town. They were all fighting, beaks draped with noodles still dripping with the residue of a sauce. The alley is a popular cut through to the High Street but as it looked like a scene out of a Hitchcock film, I decided it was safer to walk round the long way. This meant I had to go past ‘Mr Mistoffel-Teas’ cat cafe which is always a tense experience, in case the young tabby starts his nonsense. Friday was no exception. As I glanced in the window, I saw the cats draped over cat trees and sofas or in cradles attached to the window but there were no customers as the cafe wasn’t allowed to open again for another few weeks, due to COVID. They all looked a bit bored, really. Just as I thought I’d got past without incident, I heard a knocking on the window and I turned and saw the tabby frantically waving at me. I stopped, thinking it might be best just to have this paternal issue out with him, once and for all. He had his pink nose pressed to the window and his green eyes looked pleadingly down at me. For a moment I thought it was my own reflection but it was him mouthing the word “Dad”. He looked so desperate I suddenly felt very sad for him and before I knew it, instead of shaking my head, decisively as usual, I found myself nodding! It was all a bit ridiculous as there was no way I could be his father but would it really matter if I let him think I was? It was clear, the lad wanted a dad. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next so I jumped up on the window ledge and looked at him in what I thought might be a paternal way – sort of authoritative and worldly. He put his paw against the window and I did the same and he asked if I would visit him again soon. Having come this far and with a bit of a lump developing in my throat that made it difficult for me to speak, I agreed. Jumping back down onto the pavement and wandering along the road feeling a little dazed, I tried to work out how I’d only popped out for a stroll and would be returning home having adopted a son! With the burden of unforeseen responsibility weighing heavily on my paws, I thought I’d better go and break the news to Marjorie. It’s funny how life twists and turns, isn’t it?

Jeff from Number 29 isn’t getting a good reception for his proposed midsummer street party he’s named, ‘Hug Your Neighbour’. Queenie said it sounded like a dreadful 1970’s comedy programme. Undeterred at the evident looks of horror, Jeff ploughed on with the arrangements, saying it would be healthy for everyone to have some physical contact once again. To this end, he planned a tactile afternoon of team games, including ‘Pass The Orange Under The Chin’ and ‘Twister’. To date, only Mrs Waters from Number 21 has shown any enthusiasm…

Thursday 28th April 2021

By Saturday afternoon, Queenie was getting increasingly exasperated with the number of cold calls she was getting. On the fourth time, she decided to answer and was greeted with a young man wanting to talk to her about her recent accident. The only one I could think of was when she fell over the hoover while dancing to Duran Duran but I don’t think she sustained any lasting damage except perhaps, to her dignity. Anyhow, she feigned a strange accent and told the man that she would be “very interested” in speaking to him about her recent accident and his company’s offer of a “no win, no fee” arrangement to represent her in her claim for compensation. She asked him if he would mind holding for a few minutes while she fitted her “sachetto prosthesis” as, since her accident, she “struggled to hold or carry anything without it”. Sounding positively excited at the potential scale of her injury, he replied, “Of course” and told her to please take her time. Grabbing her shopping bag (‘sachetto’ means shopping bag in Italian, apparently) and keys, she gave me a quick kiss on the head and exited the house, leaving the man on the phone hanging on for rather a long time. 

On Sunday morning, I saw a pregnant woman in a cat “onesie” and slippers, making her way down the road to buy milk. I don’t think you get a discount for being a cat, even if you are heavily pregnant. It’s a bit like me wearing a mouse or poodle outfit, which is I gather, quite normal for cats in places like Japan but in photos, I have to say, they always look rather miffed at being dressed up. The onesie incident led me to think that humans have been locked away for too long or maybe they should never have been let out at all…

Gideon Longfellow has a new girlfriend. He met her at the food bank in town. Her name is Molly and she’s pretty with lots of interesting tattoos and body piercings. Gideon told Queenie she loves cats and when she saw me outside, she came over and told me how lovely I was. I liked her instantly and the encounter left me wondering if I should get my ear pierced but then I seem to achieve that during every fight I’ve ever had. Anyhow, she and Gideon seem to be spending a lot of time sitting on park benches, sucking each other’s lips. Stealing breath as part of a mating ritual is peculiar to humans. I don’t think animals have the equivalent and it’s always struck me as a little strange. What’s wrong with a good old fashioned groom and a lick behind the ear to demonstrate affection?

Judging by the news, the world is obsessed about cutting energy. All I can say is “Be more cat!”