The fat item who has been sponging off us for years has rewarded us with a technicolour yawn not once but twice in recent days.
First I came down to the kitchen to make the morning brew and there along the fortunately wipe-clean floor were what you might call “islands in the stream.” Much kitchen roll and antibac, floor mop after. Perhaps cats were sent to make us houseproud.
Yesterday I’m shaving upstairs and hear a rhythmic hoicking down in the hallway. Shouting from a distance stops nothing. This time the gift was on the mat under the radiator, so a paper towel scoop-up and the mat flung into the washing machine sorted it. That was easy, hey?
This morning it’s tea time again and I am about to check the shower in the garden room so put my feet into the worn old deck shoes I keep under the stairs and use as slippers. Or rather, my right foot. Squelch. Round Two. There it is, inside and outside, on the carpet offcut and a bit on the vacuum cleaner hose. Scoop scoop, wipe wipe, spray spray. Shoes now bumping in the washing machine; we’re still uncertain whether we can launder the offcut.
Isn’t nature wonderful?
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