Sylvia A. Winters

If a cat is thrown a lemon, he builds a log cabin and spends the summer in Canada

Archive for June 2010

Sausage and Carrot Scones (or Skank-Scones)

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(all measurements are approximations)

8 oz of self raising flour

4 oz of butter

1/2 Mattessons smoked pork sausage

1 carrot, peeled and finely grated

1/2 oz of sugar

3 oz of cheddar cheese, grated

1 pinch of chili powder (mild)

1 pinch of coriander

1 pinch of salt

1 teaspoon of marmalade (orange or ginger) optional

Milk optional

Egg optional


Instructions …

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Written by S. A. Winters

June 26, 2010 at 3:52 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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A Day in the Life of a Cat

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The cat. Perhaps the most enigmatic of domestic animals. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps that title goes to the unassuming goldfish, who only pretends to be boring, but, while his keepers are all fast asleep, dreaming about their cats mowing the lawn, holds the most fantastic parties, parties that neither you nor I could dream of, and would put every event we’ve ever attended to shame.

But of course, I digress. We’re talking about cats and their strangely mysterious habits. I followed my cat around for the day and am here to report my findings. It wasn’t easy. Climbing over the fences and onto rooftops certainly presented a challenge, and I was unsure of what to say when my neighbour caught me crouching in her flowerbed, muttering to myself (I was actually voice-recording). My cat, the bastard, just left me hanging and after narrowly avoiding a confrontation (it always pays to be polite and confused) I spent over an hour searching for him, only to later find him curled up on my bed!

Well, I will now cease my babbling and present to you my work. I call it ‘A Day in the Life of a Cat’.

I was awoken promptly at 6am by my cat mewling outside my bedroom. Somehow the rotten creature managed to claw open the door and before I even knew it was morning I had a heavy feline clawing at my chest.

After shoving him away and getting out of bed, I showered and breakfasted, all the while with him winding in and out of my legs (although he waited impatiently outside the door as I took my morning shower). I then fed him, which was of course what he’d been wanting for the last hour at least.

Once he’d had his Whiskers (chicken supermeat), he slipped out through the cat flap without so much as a by your leave. However, I was ready for him. I followed him across the lawn and as he leaped elegantly onto the fence and disappeared over the other side I discovered the flaw in my plan. I clambered over and half fell down into the neighbouring garden. My cat was squatting in the corner of the garden, and after relieving himself he kicked a small amount of dirt over the excrement. He then padded around the place, marked his territory, glared at the small hutch of guinea pigs for a spell and then jumped up onto the far fence and onto the garage roof.

I followed with some difficulty and just as I was pulling myself onto the roof he wandered over to me and headbutted my face. I almost slipped and fell, and when I was finally up I gave him a good ticking off, but he just stared at me coolly before turning away and jumping down the opposite side of the building.

It was now quarter past 8, and the street was not empty. Mrs Ellis from number 27 was packing her children into the car to take them to school, and Katie, the youngest of the family, age 6, bent down to stroke the cat before she was bundled into her seat. I lay low on the rooftop to avoid detection. The last thing I wanted was to be seen and labelled a pervert. I was already described as ‘eccentric’ within the village, but so far nobody minded my (according to them) odd ways because I regularly contributed to village fetes. My yearly potato salad was rather famous.

I watched my cat with a keen eye, noting the way he shied from the yapping terrier that growled at him from behind the front gate of number 21 and the stand-off between him and the large tabby that regularly picked on him. He was the first to move away, and he stayed cowering in the bushes at the far side of the road until the tabby moved on to taunt the terrier.

Mrs Ellis was gone now, as were the other inhabitants that held regular 9-5 jobs. I lowered myself down from the garage roof and felt an enormous sense of relief at being on the ground again. My cat, however, was not as pleased. He gave me an angry glance before disappearing under another fence. This time it was Mr Humphrey’s garden. Mr Humphrey did not like cats. He didn’t much care for people, come to that, and he certainly did not care for people who had cats. I was unsure how I should proceed, but remembered that today was a Wednesday, and that Mr Humphrey would have left the house at 7am in order to breakfast with Ms Little from the neighbouring village. I did not have to climb over the fence, but instead simply unlatched it and walked calmly into the neat, square space where Mr Humphrey kept his rose garden.

I spotted my cat almost immediately. He was clawing at the wooden fencing, sharpening his claws. I gave him a little wave and sat down on the bench to survey him. He spent the next hour of his day sunbathing, and only moved when a sparrow landed atop the wheelbarrow. He slowly got up, tail swishing, and crept over to the little bird, keeping low to the ground. He did not pounce, but watched quietly until he thought the moment was right. Happily for the sparrow and disappointingly for the cat, the bird flew away before that moment could arrive.

Now in a bad mood, he slunk off the way he’d come into the garden and I followed him closely up the road and back into my own house where he curled up onto the sofa and remained there until just after noon.

After recovering from my hard morning of stalking with a cup of tea and a cheese roll I began to note the manner in which the cat slept. His ears twitched from time to time but other than that he was very still, that was until I poked him in the neck with a pencil, at which juncture he opened one eye and seemed to consider biting me before he rose, stretched, and jumped off the sofa.

Now, after I followed him outside he entered the street once more. He then proceeded to sit in the unused driveway and lick himself in a clean but undignified manner. I watched this, and observed the way he washed behind his ears with his paws. Clearly his mother had taught him well.

He marked his territory just at the edge of the drive, and then crept through the bars of Mr and Mrs Havisham’s (their names a long-standing joke in the village) gate. Now, I knew that Mrs Havisham had no job, instead preferring to keep the house, but on a Wednesday afternoon she would almost always go into the nearest town and do the weekly food shop. This is where I got into some bother.

My cat had just squeezed through a gap where the wood panelling of the fence bordering their back garden and their neighbour’s had cracked, and I was crouching down, examining the crack and wondering how to follow him since the hole was far too small for me.

“What are you doing?” I heard Mrs Havisham shout from the kitchen window, accompanied by the sharp rap of her knuckles on the glass. I knew it was Mrs Havisham without looking because of her unusually shrill voice. Even without that particular aid I would have known because it was, after all, her house, and her husband worked weekdays, her two children were at school and her mother had died last month.

I turned and put on my best apologetic expression. As she came out of the house I didn’t hesitate to apologise profusely and I explained to her that my rabbit, Flopsy, had escaped and I was looking for her. “I saw her disappear through your fence,” I lied. I knew Mrs Havisham had a great affinity with rabbits, and her last had been mauled by a fox. As I knew she would, she empathised with my plight and let me go, informing me that she would keep an eye out for dear old Flopsy.

After searching for my ungrateful feline for the next hour or so I decided to give up the search. It was impossible to tail a cat for very long. I’m sure there are exceptions, for example if your cat is very fat and hates the outdoors.

In conclusion, I found that no matter how closely you stick to them, cats will always give you the slip, therefore it is impossible to know everything about the bastards and we can only assume and imagine what they must get up to when we’re not around.

Written by S. A. Winters

June 25, 2010 at 2:58 pm

Posted in Pets

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