BRINGING UP A CAT ON PENUARY AND PEANUTS

Tommy my cat and I sat in front of a lovely fire made up from wellingtons and whirligigs. The cold, wintry rain beat against the window and lashed into our faces, because of lack of glass. The wind howled low, Tommy and I howled high. A little tea pot sat singing on the crossed wellingtons. A heap of bread lay in the coal scuttle, waiting to be toasted. What a sight it was, straight out of Dickens, I was crouched and bent over like Fagin and Tommy was looking at me with big round eyes like Oliver Twist. I was talking, which explained the sound coming from my flapping lips. "There comes a time," I said, "when we must strive, strive, to find the answer to things we know not off. We must seek," I said, "seek out new horizons. When we find those new horizons, we still must strive and seek to find even more horizons, new horizons that are hidden beyond the far off horizons. We must never falter." I said, "We must push on into the unknown, never looking back, always looking forward, striving, always striving, seeking, always seeking, never faltering, always never faltering. Always remember, to strive, to seek, to never falter, all these are good, but the greatest of the three, is to-strive and so Tommy, to answer your question, the bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see." "Gee, Jolly, Gosh" said Tommy, "when you put it like that, it's so easy to understand. I wish I were like you, an ugly old slapper with brains to burn." I smiled and demurred. I like a good demur before my tea. "You're a good boy Tommy," I said, "a good boy, now, wet the tea while I look out of the window and yell-Geronimo." Suddenly I heard a hissing sound behind me, "SNAKE" I yelled, biting deep into my arm and sucking to get the poison out. I spun round like a hobby-horse and there was Tommy standing over the teapot with the fly of his little mauve trousers open.nNot only did he ruin the tea, he extinguished the two wellingtons and left the whirligigs soaked, sodden and saturated. No eleven plus for that lad this year, he's just not ready.
Tuesday being a day which falls conveniently between thingy-may-bob and what-you-call-it, I sprang from my hammock at the first skirl from my tartan, bagpipes alarm clock. I scraped off my pancake make up with a trowel, threw it into the frying pan, added a nob of butter and had a pancake omelet for my breakfast. "AH, that's better," I cried "sets you up for the day," as I vomited the whole lot over the postman. I rifled through the letters.Nnothing but hate mail from the butcher, the baker, the electricity board, the housing executive and sweet Fanny Adams from Florida. I stamped them all ' Paid' and stuffed them into the letterbox with a rare, ebony pygmy bum scratcher that my late daddy brought back from the war in Portrush. I spent the morning lying in the middle of a busy road with my teeth bared, pretending I was a squashed badger. In the afternoon, Tommy and I changed into two flying suits and jumped from tall trees, pretending to be German paratroopers who had forgotten their parachutes. What fun, if more people did that, there would be more people walking around with broken legs. After a late supper of beaten eggs, battered sausages and mentally abused mince it was time for-Love, time for-L'amore. I changed into a little yellow number, a pants-suit with Belfast Council written on the back, just above the two fluorescent white stripes. A little Charlie behind one ear and a little Willie John behind the other and I was ready to toss my brown, knitted bonnet into the ring of-love. Tommy had to come and get me at four o'clock at the police station. "Take the old slapper home, Tommy lad" said Sir Hugh Orde, "up to her old tricks again she was. My boys picked her up on the Donegall Road, they did.She was rolling about in the middle of the street yelling, "Hey boys, I'm a plum and I've just fallen off the tree of life." I tell you Tommy, some of those young men will never be the same again and my officers are sitting in the canteen, drinking hot tea and shaking like leaves on a tree." "Give us a kiss Hughie," I yelled, "to show there is no ill feelings." "Take her home," yelled Sir Hugh, "I've got Steven Nolan in my office, complaining that someone nicked his Christmas cake, but if you ask me, chummy ate it. The pleated fork of his massive trousers are full of crumbs." Tommy drove me through the darkened streets, with a pointy stick. Every now and then the fiery feline would pick up a stone and hap it off my head. "Tommy," I slurred, "Tommy, I'm innocent, I was standing under the street light for heat and the red light was to keep away blind bats." Tommy never spoke, he just happed another piece of breeze block against my napper. "Good night Belfast," I cried, "home of the Titanic, the Ulster fry and the wee flatulent--James Galway."
Want Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson? go to..
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And Rosie's blog is www.rosie-ryan.blogspot.com
Perhaps, the sun will shine tomorrow and there'll be buttered scones for tea.