Death in the Shed of Poop

It is a cold and frosty morning.

Even if I didn’t know this already because my toes are like icicles, the cat would be a perfect barometer. She is moaning about going outside, but if you don’t leave the French window open she is in and out, in and out, moan, squeak, lament, every thirty seconds. The gist of it is that she does not want to wee on frosty ground, and although she has a perfectly adequate litter tray should she be too fastidious to unknot her furry legs in the frosty outdoors, what she really wants is for me to go out and enact a scorched earth policy across the back garden to get things up to the required piddling temperature.

In many ways I believe that cats are incredibly clever and far superior to most animals, and indeed humans.

This belief however, that their human companions can somehow dictate and shape weather patterns on a personal level, rather than at a global warming level, is a massive character flaw. When I say massive, I am tempted to prefix the word flaw with Aristotelian. The sort of flaw that leads to Hamlet style blood baths.

Especially at seven in the morning when I am attempting to sort laundry and put sausage casserole in the slow cooker and am not relishing my role as doorman at the feline Ritz.

In other news, my e-mail seems to be broken, although everything else on my computer is working fine. I am lucky in that Jason is taking a few weeks off at the moment, so I am not in the usual blind panic that descends when things go wrong and he is far, far away. I am technologically dyslexic and afeared of all things computer based.

And yes. I have rebooted it. It’s totally off and onnable. Sadly this does nothing for the limp nature of my weirdly empty in box.

Whither the hundreds of e-mails recently advising me that I may think I am ‘pooping’ fine, but I might secretly be needing instruction manuals on how to ‘poop’?

Even if I did have problems in this area I would NEVER buy a manual by someone who refers to it as ‘poop’. Because I am not three, and even when I was we still called it pooh.

And why would you buy a manual about how to pooh or poop? Everyone knows that you should avoid eggs (very binding, apparently), drink forty seven cups of black coffee with sugar in, sink half a pint of syrup of figs and you’ll be galloping over nine hedges before the morning is out.

Better out than in, as my wise old granny used to say.

I am also missing the e-mails that promise me the untold joys of being able to access 12,000 floor plans for the shed of my dreams. I am convinced that this is either from Jason or should be for Jason. He is the one with a shed fetish in this house. Although I think even his enthusiasm would be sated by 12,000 of the buggers.

Shedtropolis.

I am also receiving e-mails enquiring: ‘What would you do if a man pointed a gun at you?’

It is a pertinent question, but not a scenario I feel is very likely to happen in Leicestershire this week, unless I get really, really unlucky. The title of the e-mail is written in caps with exclamation marks a go go, like it could literally happen any moment.

There is a rap at the French windows. I surge into the room, thinking that the cat has finally learned some cool new skills with regard to ingress into the house. I am faced with the window cleaner with an Uzi. That sort of thing.

I should have let him clean the upstairs back windows after all, even though he breaks the tiles on the extension roof. I have tipped him over the edge. The cat is helping him, by holding his chamois leather. She is fickle. She thinks the gardener might have the secret of warming up the grass. I am no longer of any use to her. I have let her down.

I am going down.

Oh no.

I have deleted all the helpful e-mails that promise to help me escape certain death by armed maniac on the loose.

Where are the spam e-mails helping you to write your will when you need one?

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