And then she asks me,
“Where’s the Kit-e-Kat?”
What can I say that won’t end in an argument over a dead cat?
She puts the empty carrier bag down on the table, picks up a tea-towel from the back of a chair and starts wiping grime onto a mug stained brown from the tannin of years of cuppas.
She stops, squints at me over the top of her bifocals and sniffs.
It’s a sniff that says she’s waiting for an answer, and it’d better be a good one.
But then she changes tack.
“Your hair wants a brush. What you been doing?”
She always says that, even when I’ve just been to the hairdresser and had it blow-dried longer, straighter and sleeker than the entire female cast of Friends, so I should be used to it.
But I can’t help it. I still have to sneak a look at myself in the mirror, still propped up against the ancient Bush radio on top of the fridge.
I decide the cat issue is the one to tackle, as the hair is a recurring theme which can never be resolved.
“What do you want Kit-e-Kat for?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“What do you think I want it for? Toppo’s got to eat something. I’ve been feeding him cornflakes all week.”
She looks at me open-mouthed, shoves her glasses back up her nose and sniffs again.
She’s been sniffing like that for years and I’ve given up worrying about Allergic Rhinitis.
“Gran,” I try to sound like a kindly old doctor dishing out bad news, while quelling my irritation that even after death she can’t get Toppo’s gender right.
“Toppo’s not around any more. She died, don’t you remember? We took her to the vet to be put down a couple of years ago. It was for the best, she was old and very ill. Perhaps you’ve been feeding someone else’s cat?”
She sniffs again, more ferociously this time, then turns and points towards the dressing table-turned-sideboard that’s wedged in front of the larder.
“What’s that if it’s not a cat’s bowl?”
