The Trafalgar News. (aka Bike) Part 1805 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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Picture: Trafalgar by Auguste Mayer courtesy of wikipedia

The doctor ummed and ahhed, but in the end because I was a voluntary patient, he had to let me go, charging Simon with my safety. I’d already promised Simon that I wouldn’t try anything silly again. I didn’t explain how I escaped the room–just in case I need to do it again sometime. Instead I told him some cock and bull story about walking through walls. The doctor accused me of being either very clever or mad. Simon assured him that I wasn’t mad–not in the biblical sense–whatever that meant. I could only assume he meant the story of Legion who had his devils cast out.

I prefer exercise to exorcise, so I’ll keep my demons fit instead.

We chatted on the drive home–again in my car. I said nothing wondering if his had broken down or met with a mishap but I could wait until we got home to find out. Heading back to Portsmouth I asked Simon if he would indulge me.

“What d’you mean by indulge? Buy you something, you mean?”

“We might have to pay some money.”

“How much?”

“I have no idea, but I shouldn’t think it would be more than forty or fifty pounds.”

“Okay,” he said looking suspiciously at me.

“Might we go home via Stubbington?”

“Where’s that?”

“The other side of Gosport, south of Titchfield.”

“As in thunderbolt?”

“The Gosport Thunderbolt? Was there a lightning strike there then?”

“No you nit, there was a film called The TItchfield Thunderbolt.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Well how was I to know?

“We saw it in school.”

By the time he’d finished telling me about this film in great detail we were passing through Gosport and not long after we were near Stubbington.

“Why are we coming here?”

“Ah, there–that’s where we need to go.” I pointed to a sign for the RSPCA animal shelter.

“This hasn’t got something to do with a cat, has it?”

I blushed and said, “It might do.” He shook his head but drove me to the Ark, as it’s called.

A little later we were looking round loads of cats and dogs–I wanted to take them all home. However, sanity prevailed and we eventually went home with a black and white kitten–one who looked like she had a dinner suit on with white gloves and socks–just like the one I saw and cuddled on the roof.

We had to provide details of address and prove it–fortunately Simon had his driving licence with him. We bought a whole pile of cat stuff from a carry basket to a bed and toys and kitten food.

Simon seemed disappointed that they didn’t have any lions or tigers to eat any trespassers. I did point out to him that it was somewhat illegal to have dangerous animals loose in the garden.

“They’d only be dangerous to intruders.”

“What would they eat if we had no intruders?”

“Well that would do as an entree,” he nodded at the basket on my lap which was making little squeaking noises every so often.

“You horrible man, this is my latest baby–the girls will absolutely love her.”

“I could never understand why Tom didn’t have a cat–most farms have them.”

“He’s had two, but they got run over.”

“So what’s to stop this one doing the same?”

“I’ll get Trish to teach her the green cross code–you know look left look right...”

“Yeah, look left and right and then bolt across whether it’s clear or not–splat. Right, kitten?”

“Take no notice of your silly daddy, he’s quite nice really.”

“I hate to say it, babes, but I can smell pat’s kiss.”

“I think I can feel it,” I put my hand under the basket and there was a wet patch.

“Well, I’m glad this is your car not mine.” At times Simon could be perfectly beastly and I was tempted to rub my wet hand on his jacket–but I’d have to get it cleaned so I didn’t bother. He pulled into a lay-by and I found a newspaper to put under the basket which soaked up any excess fluid.

When we got home, as soon as the car entered the driveway we had a welcoming party. They couldn’t understand why I asked them to keep quiet because they all wanted to squeal and shout and the kids were just as bad.

When I revealed the kitten–the girls squealed and I’m sure the poor little thing must have been close to a heart attack. Cats have phenomenal hearing, being designed for hunting small furry things which make very high pitched squeaks. I knew one which could hear a tin of tuna being opened five miles away, which exceeds my own ability to hear one a street away. I think my whole body is made up of a combination of oestrogen and tuna with the odd piece of toast filling in the gaps. My blood group is Earl Grey as opposed to the Royal family who run on Gordon’s gin–and the main reason they’re buried rather than cremated–they’d risk burning the crematorium down.

“What’s her name?” asked Meems while Trish ran off with the terrified feline in the basket.

“I haven’t decided yet, sweetheart.”

“Can we caw her Wooby-woo?”

“I think you might have problems with that, Meems.”

“No I won’t,” she said and stumped off in high dudgeon.

“What are you going to call it?” asked Stella as Simon got my bag from the car.

“I think, something like, Sprite.”

“Like the soft drink?”

“Um, maybe not. What about Blackberry?”

“We’d never know if you were calling the cat or looking for your phone.” Stella obviously wasn’t impressed by the names I considered.

“Bramble?”

“Better–especially as when she’s finished playing with us we’ll look as if we’ve been rolling in brambles.”

Just then Kiki came dashing out with her nose all scratched and she wouldn’t go back into the kitchen for love nor money.

“Godzilla might be appropriate,” smirked Stella as we went in expecting to see scratched bodies everywhere, instead the little monster was drinking milk from a saucer.

“No more of that today, it gives them diarrhoea,” I said loudly.

“But, Mummy, she was thirsty,” wailed Trish.

“Her name is Bramble, I just decided.”

“Good choice,” agreed Sammi, but Trish gave me a dismissive look as she’d obviously thought of something else. I decided I wasn’t giving in to her this time.

We found a place by the back door for her litter tray, and Simon had the dubious privilege of opening the grit they use and filling said tray.

For the next half an hour we watched as the little minx rushed about the place pursued by five or six girls, rolling silver paper balls or some of the toys we bought. Then as only kittens do, she flopped down and slept with her head inside one of Simon’s gardening shoes. Enough to anaesthetise almost any cat.

While Bramble kept the kids amused, Stella and David asked how I was–presumably comparing my version of things against what Simon had said. Then it was time for lunch and David had made a pot of beautiful tomato soup and some homemade bread–bliss.