Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I was beginning to have second thoughts anyway, partly because the cats weren't really that
bad, and partly because I really couldn't imagine the scenario wherein I told Samuel and
Maurice that no matter how much they wailed or sulked the cats were out. I had a dream
where the cats were the last three standing in an
X Factor
type vote-off - Louis Walsh had
told each of them that they had 'made that "miaow" their own', Cheryl had insisted they had
all three 'owned the stage' and so it was left to me, as the Simon Cowell figure, to decide that
Vespa was the winner and that the other two were unloved and destined for ever-decreasing
guest appearances in dingy, provincial nightclubs. It was a strange dream no doubt, the worst
aspect being that I was now feeling so guilty and so evil about the whole cat affair I actually
saw myself as Simon Cowell. Again, I woke up in a cold sweat.
I just couldn't do it, I mean really, what kind of person buys a cat on eBay anyway? Natalie
couldn't do it either and so we caught each other's eyes one evening as the boys were rolling
around in front of the fire wrestling and giggling with the cats. They're staying, we said si-
lently to each other.
'Right, boys!' I said, 'We need some new rules around here…'
I launched into a new constitution, dividing up labour amongst the boys - which cat was to
be looked after by which child and the responsibilities involved. But the more I talked, the
more Draconian the rules I laid down, the more I noticed their concentration wavering and
giggling was setting in. This only made me angrier but no matter what I said, no matter how
I ranted, I had lost my audience. They were behaving like the centurions in
Monty Python's
Life of Brian
when told of the existence of Biggus Dickus.
'What on earth is going on?' I spluttered.
'Daddy,' replied Maurice, by now practically on the floor, 'you have a butterfly on your
willy.'
A couple of weeks earlier Natalie had noticed a chrysalis on the underside of the kitchen
windowsill, indoors. Worried about the hygiene implications, my instinct had been to remove
it, but of course the Animal Rescue Liberation Front that is my family had practically
threatened me and it had been left to develop unhindered. It had now emerged a rather pale-
looking, frail creature which would almost certainly not last long as the winter set in, but
which had decided that the best chance of survival was to hitch a ride on my privates and
therefore putting paid to any serious rule-setting.
The butterfly incident occurred at the end of ten days at home. I had decided to take the first
weekend of December off to recharge my batteries and prepare myself for the Christmas gigs
onslaught that lay ahead. I had spent the time sitting in darkened rooms, mentally visualising
each Christmas gig that lay before me like a comedy ninja preparing his moves for battle.
I had been over every possible scenario and revisited every previous Christmas show I had
ever done, which is easier to do than it sounds - because they stay with you, like scars.
