Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
To my mind the cat looks ready to eat which is hardly an impediment and surely will only
muddy the waters further. It's suggested that the bibs either work because the prey can see
the predator coming (eyewitness testimony), they act as a barrier to a successful leap (manu-
facturer's explanation), or the cat feels like such a berk having a bib-shaped computer mouse
mat hanging from its neck that it's shamed into staying indoors (my theory).
None of which matters, as they didn't work at all. Oh, they were slightly off-putting for the
first couple of days but that was only while the cats got used to carrying the things around
their necks. But it didn't take long for them to actually be a positive spur to hunting! The cats
found a way of swinging the bibs around so, rather than look like a bib hanging from the neck
and ready to be splashed with food, they were now hanging from the back of the neck and
looked like small capes, giving the cats a new-found confidence as they leapt on anything
that moved in the misguided assumption that they were now SuperCats!
I fear that this dealt something of a blow to Natalie's confidence as once again the bodies
mounted up. An air of resignation set in, mass graves were left open waiting for the next in-
evitable victim, even the bibs were put on forlornly and with no real expectation of success.
Experience told me that this was the time to lay low, don't gloat, don't draw attention to your-
self. While Natalie ruminated on the inevitable failure to turn back millennia of feline instinct
she would have to turn her attention to softer targets so it was best to just stay out of her way,
which was easier said than done.
We have a big house, a lot of land and a lot of outbuildings, and yet there is nowhere I can
go that will offer any respite whatsoever, there is nowhere to hide, no oasis of calm. You're
probably thinking that this is a ridiculous complaint and you'd be right - I spend an awful
lot of my time moaning about being away from my family and then when I do get home I'm
moaning about that as well. In my defence, I could argue that I am an 'artiste' and therefore
need my creative space, but actually I'm just a moody git who needs five minutes to himself
occasionally for his own good and for the good of those around him.
It was easier when I was a smoker; I used to wait until everyone else was in bed and disap-
pear to my makeshift office in one of the
dépendances
and 'write' until the early hours of the
morning. In reality all I did was smoke, sample too much of the local wine and pointlessly
practise cricket shots until the early hours of the morning. I gave up smoking and moved my
office into the spare room in the main house, a naive move, frankly, that lasted about as long
as it took to turn on the computer as my desk rapidly became the 'go-to' place for ironing
and toys that 'Daddy would mend'. So I moved my 'office' next to a wardrobe at the top of
the stairs, where it couldn't have been more open plan if it was in the local town square, and
besides which I couldn't use my chair as 'that's where the cats sleep'.
I thought I'd found my oasis one afternoon. Samuel and Maurice were at school, Thérence
was in bed and Natalie was occupying herself in the garden, so I vainly planned on setting
up my laptop in the workshop and doing some 'work'. What I soon realised was that a family
