We woke up this morning and not only had she eaten but she’d also done her first big fat poopy-poo [in the litter tray, thankfully] since arriving at ChezKatieBlokey. You wouldn’t believe the amount of fussy head-scratching attention she received for these natural-alities.
She looks like Tom [April 1981 – October 2000].
When my dad left he and the WickedStepMother decided to get a cat, even though they were living in a freakishly little caravan with her two daughters [trailer park trash? *gasps*]. She was called Zoe [or Sewey if you can read my scrawly little six-year-old handwriting in my What Did I Do At The Weekend school diaries].
She mated. Like cats do.
And a few weeks later, now in a bigger caravan, she gave birth to three adorable little bundles. They kept Tim. He was UGLY. We took Tom [my What Did I Do At The Weekend school diary claims I chose him and that I named him, although this may be a fabrication of true events]. He was the most frightfully beautiful cat … ever. Biased? Yah. We also took Bonnie. She was stolen. Stolen! Our next door neighbours just took her love and affection and turned her against us.
[their youngest son is thirty in august and he’s getting married just a day or so later – i had a bath with him once, but that’s by the by]
Tom was the best thing that came out of Mumsy and the Father splitting up. You’d think that I might say that my half-brother, born a few months after Tom, was the best thing. But he wasn’t.
That makes me sound evil? Ah, poopy-poo.
I knew Tom. I knew him for nineteen years. I knew his favourite food, his favourite haunts, and how he liked to be scratched. My memories stem from seeing him curled up with his mummy-cat, to his first incident with the tumble dryer, to his waking me up at three in the morning for days on end just by staring at me as I lay sleeping, to that final meow on the phone when he knew he was dying and he wanted to say goodbye.
[no, he didn’t phone me, oddly enough]
I don’t know my half-brother. I don’t know his favourite food, his favourite haunts, even his favourite music. I remember seeing him in the hospital in Gip. He had a big head. I remember loving him when we were younger. Then the years of no-talking came along and the next time I saw him he was fifteen and we argued. Majorly. He looks like me. I have my Fathers genes.
But he’s just some bloke who works for Games Workshop and goes to Mormon Church.
It saddens me that I don’t know him. I could do something about it. But I probably won’t.
My girl wants a cuddle …
please God bless family oddities xxx Elsabeth