Dear Diary, Turning into our street my eyes opened wide; I almost lost my balance, and thanked my lucky stars I was riding a three-wheeler, as a two-wheeler would surely have turned me onto my tail. The street was a hive of activity. Mrs Over-the-street, wearing a quirky apron with apples appliquéd along the bottom their leaves forming a hem [I bet that took a lot of work], and an apple shape for the pocket, hurried from Niece's home, her face red from exertion, or was it embarrassment or anger? Not hearing any foul language I hoped it was only from her fast running gait, which was abnormal as Mrs Over-the-street usually ambled along in complete oblivion of cars that may drive faster than the speed limit along our quiet street.
The window cleaner chap who lives at the end of the street had his ladder perched up the jacaranda tree that grows just inside Niece's gate; the tree that I simply adore when it is in full bloom with its unusual shade of blue flowers, and the tree that Niece's man detests as he insists it drops leaves onto the lawn clogging up the lawnmower. Men are not content to admire an object for its beauty; they must bring some boring practical side-line into the equation. Niece stood inside the gate her distressed features staring into the tree. Karen and Jake were not in sight.
Dear Diary, perhaps Karen had climbed the tree in an effort to find a little peace and quietness away from Jake's perpetual complaining. He wasn't the first man I had seen with a pulled leg muscle, but I am positive no others ever moaned like he did. I feel certain he is angling for an Oscar!
This place was where I live, and I had every right to turn into the driveway! Ignoring stares from those who didn't recognise me on my new machine, I nonchalantly strolled over to Niece.
"What's going on?" I enquired.
"Aunt Alice," she gasped. "I am so pleased you are back. I do hope you won't be angry!"
Angry? What was she speaking of?
"Why should I be angry?" I replied.
"Aunt," she began, "I don't know how to tell you. But the neighbour's cat [that pesky cat that forever sneaks into the house when our backs are turned] jumped into your room through the partially open window, pranced onto the table where those goldfish are [obviously Niece has forgotten those goldfish have names ... Greensmith and Redshaw ... but I let that slip by. Who was I to stop her in the middle of an explanation?], put its paws into the water and in the process of trying to take those fish out of their tank, knocked the aquarium over, spilling water all over the carpet."
"What happened to Greensmith and Redshaw," I asked, in a rather shaky voice. This little tale was not boding well for my pets.
"That's part of the problem," Niece mumbled, suddenly realising she was to be the bearer of bad news. "That cat ate them both! I heard the commotion, ran up the hallway, but the cat scuttled past me out the back door and ran up the tree, and now it can't get down."
In a calm voice I asked where was Phil's gun! There was only one outcome of this fiasco; the cat had to be shot before it caused any more problems.
Niece looked horrified. "Aunt, you wouldn't ... would you?"
I would! Commonsense took over. We live in a built-up area. Guns are forbidden unless one has a licence, and had I thought for more than half a second about it, I would have remembered that Phil did not own a gun.
The window cleaner chap who lives at the end of the street had his ladder perched up the jacaranda tree that grows just inside Niece's gate; the tree that I simply adore when it is in full bloom with its unusual shade of blue flowers, and the tree that Niece's man detests as he insists it drops leaves onto the lawn clogging up the lawnmower. Men are not content to admire an object for its beauty; they must bring some boring practical side-line into the equation. Niece stood inside the gate her distressed features staring into the tree. Karen and Jake were not in sight.
Dear Diary, perhaps Karen had climbed the tree in an effort to find a little peace and quietness away from Jake's perpetual complaining. He wasn't the first man I had seen with a pulled leg muscle, but I am positive no others ever moaned like he did. I feel certain he is angling for an Oscar!
This place was where I live, and I had every right to turn into the driveway! Ignoring stares from those who didn't recognise me on my new machine, I nonchalantly strolled over to Niece.
"What's going on?" I enquired.
"Aunt Alice," she gasped. "I am so pleased you are back. I do hope you won't be angry!"
Angry? What was she speaking of?
"Why should I be angry?" I replied.
"Aunt," she began, "I don't know how to tell you. But the neighbour's cat [that pesky cat that forever sneaks into the house when our backs are turned] jumped into your room through the partially open window, pranced onto the table where those goldfish are [obviously Niece has forgotten those goldfish have names ... Greensmith and Redshaw ... but I let that slip by. Who was I to stop her in the middle of an explanation?], put its paws into the water and in the process of trying to take those fish out of their tank, knocked the aquarium over, spilling water all over the carpet."
"What happened to Greensmith and Redshaw," I asked, in a rather shaky voice. This little tale was not boding well for my pets.
"That's part of the problem," Niece mumbled, suddenly realising she was to be the bearer of bad news. "That cat ate them both! I heard the commotion, ran up the hallway, but the cat scuttled past me out the back door and ran up the tree, and now it can't get down."
In a calm voice I asked where was Phil's gun! There was only one outcome of this fiasco; the cat had to be shot before it caused any more problems.
Niece looked horrified. "Aunt, you wouldn't ... would you?"
I would! Commonsense took over. We live in a built-up area. Guns are forbidden unless one has a licence, and had I thought for more than half a second about it, I would have remembered that Phil did not own a gun.
"Is that why the window cleaner is up his ladder?" I asked.
Niece looked embarrassed. Oh no Dear Diary. Hester in a rush of sudden silliness had called the only person she knew with a long ladder, the window cleaner from the end of the street, to rescue a cat that had killed and eaten my pets!
I marched over to the base of the tree.
"Window cleaner!" I bellowed. "Come down instantly! That cat can stay there until it dies of starvation, or it can find it's own way down."
The window cleaner, give him his due, looked baffled, his shifty eyes sliding from Niece to myself. Niece had shrunk in size under my commanding tone.
He knew who was calling the tune now, and hurriedly began his descent. The cat was high in the leafy canopy, but edging its way towards the fence through which it had arrived. There was no doubt about its intentions; to evade captivity, and what fate I might dream up, in haste.
Dear Diary, I was not happy. Had I not put the deposit on a new aquarium for my dearest fish? I suppose there is only one solution, though whether I dare suggest it to Niece, remains a quandary ... I would phone the Pet Shop, cancel the order, and enquire as to the availability of a puppy, one that would be trained to chase cats!
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