Donna, first and foremost, is very attractive. She lives next door. Keith thinks she might be a nymphomaniac but I believe this is based on the fact that Keith wants her to be a nymphomaniac, or at least he used to. Now he does not concern himself with such things. Now he has Tilly.
Donna has an eight-month-old kitten, white all over, but with a black smudge on her forehead. The kitten’s name, appropriately enough, is Smudge. Donna also has an 80-year-old father, also white all over, but with a head full of Alzheimer’s. I don’t know what his name is. Last week – quite forgetting that he already had more than enough on his plate with his Alzheimer’s – Donna’s dad went and had a stroke. He died apparently, but only for a very short while. Then he came back to life. Imagine that. Donna thinks he’s hanging on to say goodbye to her and her siblings. And so, last Thursday, she drove to Devon to say goodbye to her father.
I learned all this on Wednesday evening, when Donna popped by to ask Keith if he wouldn’t mind nipping next door once a day to feed Smudge. Unfortunately, Keith wasn’t home, so I’m afraid I had to take charge. I said there was absolutely no question of either Keith or me nipping next door to feed Smudge. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘Smudge must move in here.’
And so for the past six days, I've had a house guest.
If Dudley the Landlord finds out of course, there will be blood. But thankfully (thanks in fact, to Destiny), Dudley the Landlord is on holiday till next weekend, and when the landlord’s away, the cat will stay.
So for most of the last week, when I haven’t been researching stuff for some fucker with a book deal, I’ve been playing with Smudge, and making little films of her madness to send to You’ve Been Framed. Fingers crossed.
The timing has been perfect, as Smudge’s presence has filled a bit of a gap created by Keith buggering off to help his dad move house, and Morag buggering off to have sex with lots of other people (or something like that – whatever – I really could not care less – do you hear me? Couldn’t give a fuck.)
I love Smudge though.
Here she is snoozing...
Here she is in massive close-up...
Here she is impersonating some ancient bridge keeper from some medieval romp. 'Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, 'ere the other side he see.'...
And here she is relaxing in the bath, after chasing a rolled-up crisp bag around for like, hours...
Donna's coming back from Devon this evening. She did get to say goodbye to her dad. He was buried on Sunday.
Of course, if she is a nymphomaniac, I'm thinking the grief might, you know, set her off. Is that wrong of me? I've bought some nice wine. I may even put on some after shave.
Am I a ghoul?
Comment query :: Have you ever taken advantage of someone's grief/sadness/nymphomania/emotional midgetry to have your evil way with them? Come on, there's no shame in it.
Update :: So. Donna got back around 9 last night. She came to collect Smudge. She stayed for a glass of wine.
She’s not a nymphomaniac. Or if she is, she is a fussy one; a nymphomaniac of some discernment.
She misses her dad. Turns out his name was Bernie.
I miss Smudge.
And Morag. I miss Morag too.