Wot Luck

My granny used to say, whenever we got shat on by a bird, or trod in dog pooh, ‘shit luck’s good luck’.

It is now a family saying – although not one I tend to trot out at school.

This morning I KNOW I am going to be super lucky all day.

This is because the cat escorted me downstairs, chirruping and chirping like an out of control canary.

She can be very vocal about the state of the nation, and this morning, something was clearly playing on her mind.

She accompanied me to the utility room, where I repaired, after putting the kettle on, to hang out some washing.

I was faced with rather a large amount of cat shit – liberally deposited about the place.

Ever since we found her ensconced in her ditch, she has had a rather delicate constitution. The vet said it is because she was abandoned before she was properly weaned, and survived by scavenging for anything and everything.

What this means is that if she eats anything except IAMS cat biscuits, purchased at ten guineas an ounce, she gets a spectacularly upset gut, and not only evacuates her bowels everywhere, but also bleeds from her back end.

This still does not stop her going out in the garden and eating grass by the cubic metre.

Grass is inedible at the best of times, and usually makes cats sick.

With Derek it is the food of champions, and she partakes of grass as her favourite and best hors d’oeuvres at every opportunity.

This morning, her guts backfired.

All over the utility room floor.

There is nothing I like more than cleaning up cat excrement at half six in the morning.

Except perhaps having finished this, being confronted by a boy who has accidentally tipped an entire litre of orange juice all over the inside of the fridge.

I am feeling blessed.

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