King Solomon's mine.
It's 2.30 am. The night is very dark, the moon is three quarters full and I am preparing for the invasion of a tyrannical kitten called Solly. King solomon to give him his full title.
The saga began last Sunday. Jim and I came in from walking Rotherfield Wood, which has been decimated by Euroforest who are cutting down spruces to make way for indigenous broad-leaved trees. It was like walking on the moon massive tyre-made ditches. Slippery clay as fierce as quicksand. I lost me MBT trainer in soggy thick mud and had to trust in the old gits navigational skills to get us home as all routes were closed.
After longer than we wanted we finally found our way to the car. We met a border terrier called Archie who jumped and panted,he too was covered in drying white clay.
We nipped into the supermarket to buy supper and returned home to the dawter and her friend.
You could feel the intrigue in the air. There was something afoot.
'I can't keep secrets from you.' said the dawter.
Out of the corner dashed a scruffy, 9 week old kitten with the ears of a fox, the neck of a meerkat, the face of an angel and the smell of a cashmere cardigan.
The dawter and her friend had coughed up more money than I dare to mention, to buy, deflea, deworm, litter up, feed and give a home to an idiot kitten with so much charm even the 'oosbind melted.
But all was not to remain rosy in the world of impetuous decisons and youthful daftness.
After three days of angst, discussions, tears and admissions, it was decided that neither young woman could possibly look after the creature in Hackney, with both of them working, getting careers on track, ridiculous timetables and not two rubles to rub together.
Phone calls,texts, more phone calls and hanging of heads resulted in the alpha male saying we would take the little thing in, and that hopefully they would learn from their monumentally idiotic mistake which cost more money than sense and has driven out our old cat. As well as playing charades this year we will be playing Hunt The Cat and pin the tail on the kitten.
Christmas will now consist of an ancient cat, an adolescent dog and a 10 week old kitten all sharing the house with 8 humans and Michael Bublé, as well as the visiting dog from next door who now has two dishes of cat food to steal.
I am anticipating squeals,hisses,chases and wrapping paper wars. I am anticipating tears, mayhem and drooling over the fluffiest ball of trouble East Sussex has seen in years. But I had not anticipated that I would be anticipating all that since I had no intention of being the owner of a baby fur ball....
Everybody else is overexcited of course. All the daughters, and the grandchild, not to mention the son-in-law, nephew, niece and two great nephews, who cannot wait to get their hands on King Solomon's mane.
Waters have been calmed though, God-Mothers have been called in to add to the chorus of common sense. The old man is home Saturday night, and then with one week left to go before he returns to the fold, I will set about finding a way of keeping the senior moggy away from the infant sprogg.
Who will sleep with whom and where, which pair of hands will scoop the rascal from under the tree, which pair of hands will collect the tiny packets he leaves behind the stove, which pair of hands will be mashing up kitten food and finding out where to buy tripe since the girls want him brought up a raw foodist like me.
From what was going to be a delicate Christmas of four, the ranks have now swelled to eight and a menagerie of animals. It will make for more frolics than a girl can handle.
Or maybe not, after so many deaths and memorials, so many goodbyes, so much sadness I wonder whether little Solmon Grundy, who arrives for Monday, will be just what the doctor ordered.
After all there is nothing better than a tiny stranger in the house to bring out the best in everybody even yourself Jebenezer Scrooge.
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SOUNDS like little King Solomon has hit the jackpot. In typical cat like style, he makes a slippery entrance and then won everyone over with his charm and innocence.
It was obviously meant to be!
Bless your new set of feet under the table..