Here I am! I know, I know, corny as heck captions. Sorry about that but my creativity (such as it is) appears to be on extended leave hence my current “cheating” by posting excerpts from one of my books. What! So shoot me!
My car is fast approaching what is politely termed as a classic car. Shame they can’t do the same with people. “Ooh, she’s getting on a bit” is done away with. You simply become classic.
And on that note, I’m turning classic.
I know this because I find myself searching for songs on the radio years ago I’d have gone to any lengths to avoid. The type of song my mum would listen to given half the chance but for the Battle of the Knobs. It was a constant friendly war twiddling back and forth from Radio One to Radio Two and back again. Nowadays not even Radio Two is classic enough for me. Shut up do! I’m depressing myself. I think it’s too poppy, although, Shingy and Ninja appear to like the songs. Squeaking with delight when one of their favourites gets airplay. From some artiste I’ve never even heard of.
Let’s get back to the car.
The other day, Tom and I had some urgent business to attend to. Special offers on 3 ply recycled loo roll don’t come along every day. About twice a year if memory serves. As do the rude remarks the previous time when I purchased the toilet roll. I don’t believe ten packs justifies asking personal questions about my proposed bowel movements. Informing me their strawberry air freshener was selling for half price.
I opened the door, hopped in and promptly strangled myself as I always do when I buckle up. Would crashing through a windscreen head first be so unbearable compared to being strangulated and having your oxygen supply cut off? And that’s when I saw it. It was sitting there looking at me. Can cat hairs look? This one seemed to be. Right there on the polished walnut area that surrounds the gearstick, all right, all right, the area in need of polishing that surrounds the gearstick but I do know for a fact that it had been hair-free.
“Look at that!” I hissed.
“Look at what?” Tom replied.
“That,” I said, pointing with my index finger before getting back to wrestling with the snake in a valiant attempt to prevent it from crushing me as it always manages to do.
“What? What? That hair. It’s Shingy’s hair. I mean, how did it get there?”
“Floated off one of us?”
“That did not float. That was already there when we got into the car. You know what this means?”
“Rex cats in future?”
“No, he’s been sneaking out and cruising about in the car again.”
That would be it. Absolutely. A cat sneaking out in the middle of the night to go cruising in a car in which he can’t even reach the pedals let alone see anything considering he would be on eye level with the steering column.
Had I finally lost it? Not to mention he doesn’t even hold a current driving licence.
Had those feline reprobates finally driven me insane? This is highly possible but not in this instance. I know what you’re thinking. How would he manage to unlock the car door? By using Ninja’s abseiling equipment it would be possible unless he’s borrowing Ninja’s trampoline of which she has no further use thanks to her organic wonder medicine.
Take a sip and become rejuvenated. (And that’s a tale in itself).
I still think I should take some.
Jumping up and down with the car key in his paw only to hang on for dear life when he makes contact with the lock. Swinging there like a commuter on the London underground. No, that’s not what happens. You’re forgetting one thing. You’re forgetting who his mother is. Not me, his real one.
That’s right! Ninja, the super feline spy who taught James Bond everything he knows. Except for the intermittent smug mode, drinking Martinis, and the fact he’s permanently randy… actually cut that last bit. Yes, Ninja had to have her paw in this somewhere. Shingy couldn’t have done this alone. Not having to dust off and recruit Lieutenant Columbo for his professional opinion because I know full well what happens.
Actually, I don’t. It grieves me to say so. I’m gutted. I’m crying all over my Prada handbag and I call myself a writer?
Creative imagination? Huh! I can’t even work out how Ninja and Shingy manage to open the front door, scoot across to the car and open it, jump in, and prowl about in the middle of the night through the country lanes like Burke and Hare. Shingy propped up on a pile of cushions or my large exercise ball whilst doing his best not to puncture it. Ninja crouched on the floor operating the foot pedals.
Is that what I’m saying? Really?
Well, my instincts do tell me that Ninja along with her special cache of MI6 tools has to be playing a part in all this. I only have to dredge up memories of Ninja lobbing furry mice that emit poisonous gases whilst escaping out of a second-storey window to realise as much. She does it all. I admit I joked about Shingy having to use the trampoline but Ninja’s participation in all this is highly probable. The bit that has me stumped is – how did it all begin?
Or, it did, until today.
I jumped in the car. Wrestled with the anaconda. Needed a tissue. I went to open the glove compartment when it fell open by itself, the catch is a bit temperamental, and that’s when I saw it. Inside the compartment I keep a bag of hard-boiled sweets should we ever break down in the middle of nowhere and have nothing to survive on apart from tree bark and assorted pear drops. I pulled the bag towards me and peered at it more closely. Yes! Teeth marks! And unless the interior of the car had sprung a leak that was cat spit on the bag.
Cat spit on the plastic bag. I should have known. What does Shingy do? Double up as a bloodhound? That cat will go to any lengths to chew on plastic. His preference is clear plastic bags. I mean, how could he smell plastic that’s inside a car twenty feet from the house? He could have seen me putting the sweets in there, I suppose. I mean, the way he creeps about the house and suddenly pops up can be more than a little disconcerting.
Suddenly you’ll find a pair of unblinking ginger eyes watching you from the top of the stairs, the bottom of the stairs, underneath the stairs. Swinging from the chandelier if we had one… in fact they’d both be swinging what with their non-aversion to perversion.
What do I mean? Huh! Are you sure you want to know the answer to that?
I feel compelled to warn you it is X-rated. I know. I know! What does X-rated have to do with cats? Normally, not much but when it comes to Cynthia Ninja Payne and her son – anything is possible.
To be continued…
And here she is, my classic, and looking a dirty one too but then she’d recently motored all the way from the UK to France. For all you ghostly adventurers out there what do you make of that orb-like thing floating to the rear left wheel of the vehicle?