Mkgnao! Pushkin the cat said loudly. Or loudly as he could at his age. Which wasn't loudly at all. Hardly discernible really. But he bared his pink gums at her all the same. She watched curiously as Pushkin flashed his good eye at her, his sleek fur shining from hours of brushing by her.
" Does he want kidneys or giblets" She hears a disembodied voice cry from the kitchen. "We haven't got any" she replies a little tardily. [I cannot believe this . Eve's been listening to too much radio of late and Leopold Bloom has got to her. I mean, I know the book is interesting, the dramatisation wonderful but do we have live it?].
We'd been to listen to the Stornoway Singers. In An Lanntair you know. All glass, white walls and Norm sat in the bar. Hair spiked, smiled fixed ready for the greeting. We greeted him. As you do. The crowds were there, there to hear a requiem. Moz Art don't you know. Local musicians led by the lovely Cath Fish waving her arms like semaphore across the harbour in her velvet attire. The singers sang in time to the message. The band played too. Twas a grand old racket to behold. Fair sent a shiver down my spine and a tear to the eye. I pointed my matchbox at the sound. Capturing the soul of the evening, saving it for posterity. [While I sat on a book to help my posterior embrace the windiness in my tum].
And then we retired to bed exhausted and ready for refreshing sleep on a darker night then usual as Pushkin curled up on his chair below and dreamt the dreams of times past several lives no doubt but not nine not yet anyway.