Tag Archives: Crumble

my bad-tempered tabby cat

The Ribbons of Wrongness

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Vengeance is mine.

These imbeciles in their jubilee red, white and blue. Pageants, fireworks, madness. Literally. Madness. And all this for a lady who keeps dogs. Have I taught them nothing? Yet still they fawn and celebrate, dance and daub their faces like fools. They tie ribbons around my neck.

Ribbons.

They are but kibbles in my jaws. I shall chew them like mouse toffee. Suck the marrow from their bones like salmon gobstoppers.

I shall arise and go now, to claw their favoured standard lamp, to shake my tail and drop tapeworms upon their draining board. Defecate upon their shingle driveway. I shall laugh in the face of their dismay.

The ribbons lie eviscerated beneath the kitchen table. Oh, for the chance to erase the memory of my humiliation with equal savagery.

Let us speak no more of this.

Hot Smokin’ Rubber

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Crumble’s life is very simple. She sleeps, she eats, she scratches anyone idiotic enough to stroke her in That Certain Way (this has never accurately been gauged), she sleeps again. Most of the above is done in a manner best described as baleful.

Now picture Crumble, her malevolence towards humankind miraculously suspended. This evening she has found a rubber band, and hell of a different kind has broken loose.

KILL. KILL the rubber band. MASSACRE the rubber band. The rubber band is MY ENEMY and I shall MURDER—crikey, my bum stinks. I must stop a while and give it a seeing-to. My tongue is somewhat prickly tonight. Now. Where was I. AHA! That EVIL RUBBER BAND has returned to TAUNT me. Resist! Resist! Whoo, that was one hot funky salsa move, back legs going like Ola Jordan on a good day, the rubber band is DYING, it cannot possibly survive the onslaught! I have conquered! *evil cat laugh*

I shall now stare timelessly into space. The rubber band will assume that I have forgotten it. How wrong it is. How very– Any food in this place? What kind of a hotel is this anyway? What are you staring at? My life is littered with the carcasses of fools.

Fish food for thought

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We have acquired fish. Real live ones. There’s a lemon goldfish, an orange comet and a black moor now swimming happily on top of the chest-of-drawers in the boys’ room. Their names are Timothy, Allan and Sonic.

That assortment of names brings all manner of things to mind. Things that one doesn’t normally associate with living, swimming fish. Three men in a pub seems to be the front runner. Timothy and Allan have known each other for several years and are members of the same Angling Club. Sonic is a relative newcomer, whose attempts to blend in are hampered by his odd, boggly eyes and somewhat conspicuous name. I can hear the conversation now.

Timothy: Catch the game on Sunday?

Allan: No hands, mate. Just fins. Not catching much, to be honest. Pint?

Timothy: Lovely, son. Water for me.

Sonic (late and gasping): All right, lads. What are we drinking?

Timothy: What are you, an alien from Betelgeuse Seven?

I wrote a book about a fish once. It was a marvellously named Flame Angel, and was stolen from the SeaLife Centre in a fictitious US coastal state, snatched from the company of fellow water-dwellers with equally fabulous names: peacock wrasses, teardrop butterflies, turbo snails. I’m pleased to report that the fish was returned safe and well and wet by the end of the story. (The book was called VANISHING POINT, and was part of a series called The Pet Finders Club, in case you’re interested.)

I’ve liked fish ever since. They are lovely to watch, gentle and soothing and shiny. OK, Sonic is more amusing than shiny. I hope Timothy and Allan are being kind, and not muttering darkly about foreign weirdos taking all the jobs in the tank. Apparently, black moors can live up to twenty-five years, so perhaps Sonic will have the last fish flake in the end. (Assuming Crumble doesn’t eat him first.)

Fabulously gorgeous snow day

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Everything looks so pretty today, I can hardly bear it. I’m sitting in my little study – it has three windows in a bay around my desk – and staring out at the garden. Long-tailed tits are bombing around like round pink and black lollipops complete with long lollipop-stick tails. Fortunately for all, Crumblechops is asleep on the radiator.

I finished a new and exciting writing project yesterday and sent it to my agent. I’m now feeling rather strange. What if she doesn’t like it? What if no one wants to publish it? Confidence is a fragile thing. To take my mind off matters, I’ve got my editing hat on today. Here is a picture of it.

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It’s a silver cowboy hat that I found for 99p in an excellent shop in Alton. What do you think?

I’m really looking forward to my editing now I’ve put my hat on. It’s a new book by an American teenager. Wow, the hat feels even MORE appropriate now I think about it. I repeat, she’s a TEENAGER. Good on her!

Before I begin

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If this blog is to be named after her, I feel I should introduce Crumble before I do anything else. Crumble, or Crumblechops as she is known when I am feeling affectionate, is my cat. She is known by different names when I am feeling less keen, such as when she hides in the folds of my children’s duvets so I can’t find her at night and shut her in the kitchen, or when she eats blue tits.

She is an inscrutable cat, as cats so often are. ‘Inscrutable’ is a fine word. If you don’t know what it means, picture a cat. Here’s one I made earlier.

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Crumble in a good mood.     Crumble in a bad mood.         Crumble in a filthy mood.

So now you know who she is, I’ll introduce myself as well. I’m the one who feeds her, persists in stroking her even when she’s in the filthy mood pictured above with such clarity, and regularly defends her from threats of cat eviction, scientific experiments and drowning in Frensham Great Pond from certain other members of my family who don’t appreciate being jumped on with claws on full or having to wipe cat sick from the window sills in the morning.

I’m also a writer. Of children’s books. Which often, but not always, feature cats.

Just so you know.