R.I.P FH

Sad news from the Canary Island. Feline Houdini, still tended by vet after his operation, did not survive it after all. He died last night. Granny heard by telephone on a miserably grey wet cold day in London. No she will not say the skies were weeping too. That's a device called 'the pathetic fallacy' much used in nineteenth century literature... But this is the 21st. Let's just say the rain and grey felt appropriate to Granny's feelings, there, then and all the way down in the bus to Bristol with Beloved Eldest Granddaughter. It was raining on the road too. It is raining here in Bristol.

On the other hand, Beloved has a new octopus in his rock pool; Granny hopes he can keep it alive along time; she wants to admire his eyes. Better still, Daisy the Speckledy hen has laid her first egg. Life goes on.... It really does. But how Granny wishes it would still contain too, her cool, orange, maddening customer of a cat, her FH. When she cuddled him before leaving him at the vet's last week, he purred loudly. 'That's because he likes you,' said the vet's assistant.

RIP FH. What is it about orange cats? Why do they all - Granny's anyway - die young? This one was not 4 years old. And his real name - let's shout it aloud now - was Maurice.