The stress over the last few days has reached fever pitch, and it’s time that I spoke out against the sin that dare not speaks its name.
At first it was just a polite relationship. Tabatha (real name withheld) and I would meet in the hallway. Smooth nods and gracious smiles would be exchanged. Simple. Polite. Congenial even. We progressed to the odd vocalisation. Even to the point where a soothing pat on the spine could be exchanged between friends. Not unlike Michelle Obama with HRH Queen Elizabeth II. It seems that since former Australian Prime Minister Paul Keating put his hands on the Queen back in 1992 that everyone is going the grope these days with the royal personage.
But I digress, yet again.
This week there was a change in Tabatha. She has gone from quiet unassuming to wanton strumpet. Now when I pass her in the hall I find that she has blocked the thoroughfare, her legs raised slightly, her back arched, and presenting, yes presenting! I try to skirt past but she is adamant in her attempts to use her beguiling ways to cast a spell on me. She’s just a devil woman, with fecundity on her mind.
When in the communal kitchen, I will suddenly feel the light swishing of her coat against my calves as she silently stalks past me. Next thing I know she exposes he tender underbelly and is flicking her head in a come hither manner that would make Marilyn Monroe blush in shock. I try to let her know that I am not that type of man, but her pursuit is relentless. When I try to shut her out of the communal kitchen, within minutes she’s back again with her whiplashing antics and skullduggery.
Her shrill caterwauling outside my door, calling for me, is a step too far. Like a siren trying to lure me into the depths of her depravity, she calls to me with her lorelei song in those silent moments of the day when she thinks no one else is listening. I sit quietly typing as silently as I can on my keyboard, so not to give away my presence. I made the mistake of leaving my door open the other day, and there she was embracing my woollen jumper and scarf like she was a junkie get her first hit of the day.
Well it’s just not right! I’m not going to stand for this anymore. The advances of this wanton minx are unnatural and unseemly.
And when I say minx, I mean Minx.
Or actually one of those cats with a squashed in face, like the snivelling pug nose dogs.
Yes, gentle reader, the minx is the house cat that lives in my humble abode. She is definitely embracing the season to be more than jolly. And for some weird human/feline crossbreed notion, she has chosen me to be the sire of her brood. Eeeewww! And she is being relentless.
Now, I do realise, humble reader, that I am quite the catch. And you can’t blame a simple puss for trying. But how much grey matter do these animals have when they can’t seem to differentiate between species? I know I am being fussy here, but I am looking for a certain someone who can at least hold a monosyllabic conversation and feed themselves (preferably not out of a tin containing snouts and hooves). And an opposable thumb wouldn’t go astray either. Is that too much to ask for?
Hmmm .. now that I think about it again, I wonder what Michelle Obama was really trying to say to Mrs Elizabeth Windsor … Where did I put that number for the National Enquirer?