Catastrophe.

At 4.41 on Friday catastrophe struck. 56310 Melrand ground to a halt. Life as we know it ceased to exist. It took a while to sink in. What had happened? What was going on? Was it War, a Bomb, a Cyber Attack, even? I went to bed early in the hope that everything would be alright tomorrow.

And then the next morning, somewhere from the depths of ancient memory, the jungle drums began to sound. Scattered groups started to congregate on street corners and byways. Conversation and gossip were heard for the first time in a decade. Hesitatingly at first, but increasing in volume as the day went by. They all looked pasty, and mostly wearing sun glasses, although there wasn’t much sign of the Sun. Disaster had indeed struck.

I went shopping for want of something better to do. But it only got worse. No bank card transaction in operation. Shock, horror. Who carries money these days?
But what was this? The long forgotten chink of small change and the rustle of bank notes? Somebody or a few must have been hiding their ill gotten gains under the mattress. I know I have. Let’s hope that The Inland Revenue don’t read this Blog. However, there isn’t much chance of that. Only a very few do.

The next thing you know, people will be digging out old Biros and writing words on paper. I did briefly try, but my hand writing has deteriorated into an unintelligible scrawl. And as for my spelling, how can I tell if it’s right or wrong?

It finally transpired that some bloke doing road works with a digger had taken down Broad Band for the whole of the Melrand area. And Pontivy as well, for all I know. A different set of jungle drums. Local Accent is everything around here.

The bloke with the digger is presently in a safe house, waiting for a new identity. He stands to be lynched if he shows his face.

PS. It’s back. And much faster. A long awaited upgrade has occurred during the chaos and interim. The bloke with the digger might not need a new identity after all. In fact, he might even get a medal.

Cats.

I like Cats as well, but I don’t have any now. Too many of them have been killed on the road outside my house, and I can’t cope with that anymore.

A French neighbour did once remark that I could always get another one, all too easily, as everyone knows. However, I don’t like locking up cats in the house or seeing them drag themselves home injured and near to death.

But, to my first ever cat. He was the product of a Singapore Storm Drain, filthy and starving and Tabby. I was going to send him to The Pound because I was forever rescuing stray animals. The Pound men used to call at my door as a matter of course. But they didn’t arrive for a week, and it was too late by then. He was my Hamlet of Cats, I called him Cat Cat. And, glory be, he had a complete and undamaged tail.

The Chinese believe that damaged cats can’t get into Heaven. So long has this idea existed that most Singapore cats are born like it. So his tail was pretty much a one off.

During that week he messed on every bed in the house. Poor little soul, he simply wasn’t used to being fed, and he did grow out of it very quickly. Thank God for that. He was totally devoted to me, so I don’t care what anyone says about cats being self motivated. He wasn’t. He would jump on my shoulder the minute I sat down, and then proceed to wind himself around my neck with mews of delight. I did so love him, and he me. We had nearly two lovely years together.

I was in the process of arranging transport for him, back to UK when we were due to return. But he vanished one day. I found him dead, poisoned, under a bush at the bottom of my garden. Utter desolation.

I have had many much loved cats since, but never one quite so special.

Excuse me. Off to get another tissue. I will try to think of something a bit more uplifting next time. My life hasn’t only been about animals and tragedy.