I'm in trouble again. It was one small leap on to the mantelpiece for me but one giant drop to the floor for a green vase – a hideous thing the old woman was given for Christmas.
She had her sucked lemon face on and talked to me in that ‘this hurts me as much as it hurts you’ voice.
‘Toffee, Toffee, what are we to do with you? Naughty pussycat. Naughty.’
I stalked off, tail held high, arse swaying from side to side, nose in the air - just to show her I didn’t give a damn. The old man met me at the door and bent down to stroke me. He smiled slyly and whispered: ‘I hated that bloody thing.’ Then loudly said to the old woman: ‘Oh no, not that lovely vase!’
By now she was sweeping up the pieces with a dustpan and brush.
‘Yes, darling, I’m afraid it was. I don’t want to ban Toffee from the sitting-room but she’s such a menace on that mantelpiece.’
The old man rubbed my ears.
‘No, we can’t do that. Let’s just make sure there’s nothing breakable on the mantelpiece.’
Why is the male of the species so much more practical than the female?
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