It seems that Yorick the field mouse has taken up residence in the summer house. The Two-legs-es were taking advantage of the warm Spring weather to groom the garden and Lady Two-legs was rummaging for the garden rake amongst the tangled clump of long handled implements when there was a dual leaping in the air as Yorick and Lady Two-legs surprised one another simultaneously.
Lord Millhouse-the-bad'un was promptly set down inside the summer house to investigate. With the usual puzzled expression on his face, he sniffed a few things, and gazed around nonchalantly. Sadly, unlike Poirot, he hasn't many little grey cells to call upon in such circumstances, and he quickly uttered a, "Pah!" and walked out again in a matter of seconds.
"Definitely nothing doing in there!" He concluded in a French, nay Belgian accent and strolled off onto the lawn to flop on his back. "That cloud looks just like a bowl of cream," he mused with a lick. And that was that.
Yorick must have breathed a sigh of relief and got back to organizing his food hoard into 'best before' dates.
Me? Well I'm a bit disgruntled - having been quite happily gruntled yesterday I might add. You see the sunny, luxury upstairs boudoirs have been closed off to the feline fraternity on account of a visitor who is due to arrive this week and will be availing themselves of said rooms for a few days. The Two-legs-es feel we leave too many gritty, furry deposits on surfaces when we set up camp in nice clean rooms. All attempts to gain forced access have so far failed. I even tried the 'police raid' type rush as I've seen on TV to shoulder the door open accompanied by an angry yell, but it merely rattled. No sympathy was extracted from the Two-legs-es who stood at the bottom of the stairs, with arms firmly akimbo and brows tightly furrowed. I could see they were determined and so I huffily slunk off to the dining room chair where so far I've spent half the day feeling grumpy. The sort of grumpiness which only three extra meals could possibly placate.
It's half-term; the Two-legs-es are around all day, so additional sustenance can be purloined if one is persistent enough. A situation with which I am well acquainted and of which I always take full advantage!
"Get out of the way!" Says Mr Two-legs as I wind myself around his legs in the kitchen. (Care must be taken that extremities aren't trodden on.)
"What's the matter now?"
"But I fed you only half an hour ago!"
"Oh, for goodness sake!"
"You don't stop eating 'til it comes out the other end, do you?"
"Tutt! Oh, go on then!"
Then a nice fat pouch comes out of the cupboard. As it's ripped open with such impatient vigour, the gravy splats across the cupboard doors in a splendid orangey brown rainbow.
"Doh! Now look what you've made me do!"
"Bloomin' greedy lumpus pussus!"
I eat daintily and with composed dignity. (Just the one ear backwards)
Two-legs faffs about with the kitchen cloth. He babbles too much!
Q.E.D.
Herky
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