It was time to take Gertie the wee black cat, the newest member of our family, to the vet. She was the runt of the litter. Gertie is tiny.
She might be small, but by jings, she can move with the speed of a seriously excited particle in the Hadron collider. She can create sounds that out-decibel a Harrier Jump Jet. She is capable of generating a trail of destruction not seen since the days of chemically enhanced drummers from hugely successful rock bands taking out entire bedrooms in luxury hotels, in fact, entire floors.
We found all of this out the minute the cat box was produced. The whole family was caught up in the scramble to get one tiny cat into one small cat box.
At one point we were all closing and opening doors with the deranged abandon of one of those farces the English are so fond of, which invariably involve someone’s trousers falling down and a vicar. Oh, for the sound of a Scottish accent bellowing from the audience ‘he’s in the bloody wardrobe!’
Anyway, we thought we’d cornered Gertie by hissing commands at each other like they did in Alien when they thought they had the monster in the air ducts. We should have remembered the film. Gertie bounded for freedom over our heads, landing on that lamp in the living room I never liked. Just as well.
It was time to get serious. I made for the linen cupboard, and grimly handed out towels.
Now we were armed. The whole family looked like a low rent bullfighting school.
We made a concerted attack in a pincer movement that finally brought her down at a run on the upstairs landing. Naturally, we all had to go to the vet. We sat in the waiting room looking like we’d come back from a tough patrol in ‘Nam.
Not that the vet noticed. The minute the tiny black horror got into the surgery, she behaved like a royal opening a bridge. Oh yes, her feline majesty would of course come out of the box and sit like a little queen for the vet and of course she would be only too happy to go back into the box for the nice vet.
Before we left, she as good as turned and apologised for the state of her battle scarred retinue.
Pet names mean it’s me who leaves in stitches
And, of course, the vet hardly spoke to us at all. They communicate entirely though the pet. They even call you in using the pet’s name.
There was a young man sitting outside waiting as we left. He was massive, with a powerful, shaven head. There was a little girl sitting next to him, and on his lap he held a cat box like ours, but he had a rabbit in his. The vet nurse smiled her vet nurse smile, looked at the young man and said “Mr Floppy?”
I can only put my resulting hysteria down to post traumatic stress disorder.
This weather witch is now taking orders. Who’s for a hot summer?
Right, sorry, obviously all this was my fault. Last week, when commenting on the fierce and savage scorching heat I flippantly suggested we need not worry, since it might be snowing on Tuesday.
It did. Jings! I’m a weather witch!
Naturally, my new found powers are at the disposal of my nation. We’re going to have proper weather round here, for a change.
Our summers will swelter. Portobello will become the new Cannes. The Film Festival might like to re-locate, so that we can have paparazzi shots of glamorous starlets frolicking in the waves in scanty bikinis with Seafield in the background.
There will be proper winters at the correct time of the year, with pretty snow in useful places, in other words, north of the M8.
Aviemore will rise as the new Gstaad, with serious snow to ski upon, instead of slushy mush. The downside to this, of course, is that George Osborne skis a lot, and we could find him in our midst. On the upside, we could find George Osborne in our midst, in Aviemore. Which can get very dark . . .