The Great Storm
Soon it was my birthday. I was one year old. The two kittens next door continued to grow. And the Yuppies hair grew even larger. I was snoozing when the storm hit. First the windows shook so hard I thought the glass would break. Then the garden furniture began to fly in the air. There was a terrible crash when it collided with the garden wall.
In our garden, the old shed fell down. Mum was so lucky; she’d had the snip. So there were no newborn kittens or her, inside when whole thing came crashing. The chickens were lucky though; they escaped with a few ruffled feathers, but their cage intact.
Felix seemed to become slower, after the hurricane. He never bothered rebuilding his shed. It just stood there: a pile of wood, paint and tools. And he was getting forgetful. Sometimes he forgot to put food down for Mum and I. When we cried he would shout :
Oh shut up cats !
Which was not like him at all.
So Mum taught me how to hunt. We got by. But the poor old chickens, they didn’t see Christmas. Old Felix spent more and more time in his room. He stopped cooking food; so there were no more tasty scraps to scrounge.
A short Shaggy Cat novel
Something had changed but I couldn’t figure out what. I shook my head, and went on my way. The next day, I looked again. That was the thing with these people, they were always out; so there was no danger of being shooed away (a hazard of the job).Later I learned that some people worked during the week and rested at weekends. But I was ten months old then, so I knew nothing. Anyway I look into the dining room first:
Fancy Blue Curtains, all flowery and gathered-up at the ends. Very fancy.
A Computer that was never turned on.
Music System, that only came on a parties.
And a picture of something or other on the wall.
A big fat zero I hit there. So I look in the bedroom. It’s a small room, with only a bed and a chest of drawers. But the bed is mighty fancy: it’s all gleaming and gold, with fancy white covers. Then something emerges from beneath the covers, and I jump out of my skin. For some strange reason I think this thing is a dog; not that I’ve met one or seen once face to face. It’s instinct, don’t ask me why or how, it just happens.
But the moving thing makes no woof or barking sounds. Then I catch a whiff of it’s smell: cat, or rather kitten to be exact. I jump onto the side window ledge to get a better look. And while I’m becoming accustomed to my new neighbour, another little head, peeks from underneath. This new one is blue, and the first a browny cream.
I can see they are quite new to their Yuppie place, quite frightened . Although the bed looks lovely and soft, and I feel a little jealous. Old Felix keeps his bedroom locked, and I’m certain his bed is not as comfy or fancy.
Black back chain
and cycles of possession.
The tattoo on your foot
and those dainty little toes.
Waiting at the crossing,
at Camden Road.
on nights that always end.
The crinkle on your lips,
as you wait for them to go.
To catch their train.
at Camden Road.
To all points south.
To detours way up-north.
To Lambeth and to Poplar.
To Wilmslow and to Whalley Range.
To way around the corner.
At Camden Road, at Camden Road.