postcard

Do you have a cat called Tommy?

Have you got a cat called Tommy?

There's a white cat with odd eyes, called Tommy...

Um, it's about a cat called Tommy.

Tommy.

Tommy?

Tommy.

So good of the fluffy fuckwit to keep in touch. The lack of fingers scuppers texting and phonecalls a bit, but those two braincells bounced against each other, a stunted dead tin noise, and he bounced from door to door, Road to Street to Close, offering up his torpedo name tube and only biting one child (I know of), as we bounced from Cornish village to town to beach to cliff. He begging tuna and chicken, pretending unfed and unloved, as we scoffed icecream and whitebait, pretending slim enough to take the excess.

Back in the wee smalls to a strangely mowey Dave. Mow, mow, mowowow. Washing machine on and on and on again, then to bed, Dave atop his sleeping Molly.

Catflap clutterdug gone half-two. Bell on the stairs, fluffy fuckfit a pile of purr in my arms. Not left since, except for pee and poo.

Yup, we've got a cat called Tommy.