The fuschia in my front garden has grown so tall that the top branches nearly reach my bedroom window so the cat sits on my desk when I'm working and tenses whenever a bluetit or sparrow lands. Next door's two big fluffy cats also sit in the upstairs bay and quite often nowadays there's a cat standoff. Tiger growls in that unearthly cat way and stretches her neck and the neighbour's cats put their front paws onto the window ledge and stare. When my blind's down, Tiger scratches at it until she can see the window, so my desk is now covered in cat hair since she's also moulting. The presence of cats next door since the beginning of the winter has stopped her hunting because she's so nervous about being invaded and is always being chased out of the garden. I found one of the two asleep on a groundsheet in the shed the other day but mostly it comes into our house so there's even more fur to hoover up. Tiger, or alternatively Queen of Cats, is consequently my constant companion. I feel like a large protector, but my daughter gets cross when I say that because that means a shift in allegiance from her to Tiger. Anyway, next door's cats, delightful as they may be, are now Bully Cats. We have not seen any more of the black and white one (Psycho Cat) that tried to hide by standing on its head behind a chest of drawers in my daughter's room. When I lived in Campbell Road, the cat next door was one of seven and was a terrible thief. One night it did an enormous number of runs in and out of my kitchen window with a bag of onions, three pairs of knickers, several socks and a tee shirt. When I went next door to collect them from the garden, its owner brought out a box of jewellery and told me it had once managed to bring a mop through her cat flap. As soon as waterpistols are in the shops again, I'll be buying a super soaker.
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