The Cat's Mother has now left the building.
Yes, it's true. The Cat's Mother is no longer in residence.
Instead she has been usurped by The Baroness Puke Vom Honk'n'Heave. She moved in on Monday.
Let me tell you The Baroness is no match for The Cat's Mother. For a start she lies in bed all day moaning and groaning. There's hardly a smile to be raised.
What's worse is that she doesn't cook, she doesn't wash and she doesn't clean. So the kitchen is piling high with Dominos pizza boxes, the sink is full to overflowing...there isn't a mug to be found which isn't covered in a brown tea or coffee stain. The mice have become emboldened and have taken to organising hurdle races across the sitting room floor. We've been trying to shoot them, but none of us appear to be a good aim - their number are multiplying and we now have so many holes in the sofa and the walls we've run out of fingers and toes to count them. I've run out of clean pants so am now wearing them inside out and back to front, but I'm a feared this may not be a good long-term solution. Given his military bent, The Boy has gone commando. And we don't like to ask about The Cat. We had a go at washing, but when everything came out pink, we thought there must be something wrong with the machine.
On the up side, I've allowed myself to strip the motorcycle engine in the living room. I don't think the oily patches will show after a few weeks on the cream shag-pile carpet. The Cat has moved the drinks cabinet to her room which has given us a bit more space downstairs, and The Boy can now practice his guitar playing and drumming until three in the morning.
On balance, though, I'm not sure that, overall, it's a good deal, so I'm making a public appeal for The Cat's Mother to return. In the meantime, any food parcels would be greatly appreciated, if you could give us a clue about how to switch on the dishwasher that would be great, and if you could get Oxfam to deliver some clothes I'd be grateful.
