She's now very frail, very tired, and very sleepy. She's showing her age, and carrying it as well as she can. It's a sadness that age isn't being as respectful to her as she is to it. She has a blanket on the sofa, and now occasionally struggles to get up to sleep on it. She reaches up, sinks in her claws, and - if she's lucky - pulls herself up. Often, she simply pulls the blanket down, onto her somewhat baffled head. Once up, she tries to settle. But her age obviously brings aches with it: she often struggles to her feet, turns around, and lies down again. Actually, that's a bit of an exaggeration: she usually simply flops, then re-arranges her limbs.
Our old Granny Cat won't be with us for much longer, I fear. She eats little, and dreams much. When she does die, it will posibly be a welcome release for her. She'll have earned the easy mice and catnip of a fondly imagined after-life. And she'll be remembered more fondly than many humans.
LISTENING TO: A mix of Frank Sinatra, Alvin Lee, Harry Nilsson, Fleetwood Mac, Suzanne Vega, Heather Nova, and Guns n' Roses.
READING: "Tyrant", by Christopher Cameron. It's a yarn about the years of Greece's glory... when Alexander was away plundering Persia, the boys got up to a bit ofr trouble at home. I'm thoroughly enjoying it. He also wrote an excellent story called "Washington and Caesar".. about George and a slave. Read it.
WORD OF THE DAY: Grace. Old Granny Cat's got it.
The last of Moana.
“I told you she has that dyslexia thing, dear. She been seeing the Reverend every Saturday for private reading lessons.”
“He said he could teach me to understand the words, Mrs W. But he didn't, he just -”
“Now, Wendy,” interrupted Pastor John. “Remember what I told you about the Bible, how a woman must obey a man, and -”
I snarled at him. “Listen, you! You can just shut the fuck up, and let the child tell me her story.”
“Quiet, woman!” He thundered back at me. “I will not be told by a woman – and any way, I simply told Wendy that I loved her. Like the love of Christ!”
Wendy shrieked then. “You took your thing out and tried to make me kiss it! That's not love!”
I heard Chutty snarl, and I turned to him, and glared. If he started, I didn't know where it would stop.
“So, Reverend,” I said. “You seem to be a little confused how to handle a woman. How do you think you'd go with a woman with a little experience?”
I was hitching up my wedding dress as I spoke. Even if I do say so myself, my legs are still pretty good. And tonight I had them in my finest stockings, and a brilliant white, black, and red garter around my right thigh.
“No, stop, Mrs Wrigley, I demand you stop!” he shouted.
“You haven't the balls,” I sneered. And kicked him where I'd find out whether or not he did. He fell to the ground, whimpering.
“Now bugger off back to the vicarage, and pack your bags, John from the Bible,” said my husband. “You're finished in this town. And you'll be finished in the church, too, if I have anything to say about it.”
The un-revered reverend crawled to the door, sobbing. I opened it for him, and spat on him. “And you will never, ever say 'quiet, woman' to any woman again, little man,” I said. “You'll never be man enough to earn the right.”
I slammed the door behind him, and turned to my family. Chutty looked at me and said “You did OK there, love. But if you want a few words from an experienced football coach, you need to work on your follow-through when you kick. You could have got twice the distance.”
Tomorrow: A very short story thatI've submitted in a competition. It carries on the story of a character who's introduced in this yarn. My plan is to gather together four stories about people from Northridge: you've seen the first two.