I am back in Oxfordshire looking after the cat named Tybalt. Or, as I call him, The Mighty Tybalt. Once again, he blows hot and cold with me. Last night, while his mother was here, he was all affection. Today, he is aloof. Doubtless he will change his tune when he realises he can’t open the tins of Purina Gourmet Gold “Melting Heart” (with chicken) with his paws. “Melting Heart”? “With” chicken?
That is just one of the big changes round here since the last time I cat-sat, in June, I think. No more the sachets of Sheba, no more the lumps stuck at the end of the packet that can’t be squeezed out, no more the cat food all over one’s fingers after trying. So that is an improvement. Other changes: the lawn is parched. The potted tomatoes are growing massive. The birds have vanished. There are now wasps. And plenty of bumblebees, fat enough to bend the lavender stalks as they forage for nectar.
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