It’s taken a while. A lot longer than either of us thought.
But finally it has happened.
Not the decorating. Don’t be daft. Although that is rapidly approaching its conclusion and aside from the fact that various elements of it aren’t in any way ready, the hinges for the cupboards are sadly disappointing and we’re just waiting for the carpet to arrive there’s every possibility that my mother will actually have somewhere to sleep at Christmas.
So that’s good.
But no, what has happened is that a certain small black and white cat has begun to snuggle down in the Christmas Tree again.
I think, this year, we’ve thrown her. Having moved the room round and make it all more cosy the Christmas tree is no longer easily accessible via an armchair. Partly because that armchair no longer exists, but that is by the by. To get into the tree she either needs to shin up it from the bottom – something she did once a few evenings ago but aborted very quickly, or approach it from the TV unit or windowsill. Neither of which afford her the prefect entry position.
And yes, I know, it is very exciting having a Christmas Tree that we are aware a cat may climb in and overbalance positioned so close to a large flat TV which could probably be easily knocked for six.
Anyway, in all the upheaval of moving stuff around the house, there is no a small table next to the tree. A table which provides an almost text book perfect approach to what are some of the best “lying branches” in the hole tree.
This evening, as I was slaving over a hot stove making tea, and Carole was on the phone to my mum, the tree was merrily rustling away, the little bell at the bottom ringing, and the baubles dancing.
I started to believe that the tree may be haunted by a spirit of Christmas.
But no, it was a small adorable wide-eyed black and white cat, just worming her way between the branches, working out the best way to lie so that she could be more or less fully stretched out.
And she bloody managed it as well.
If she keeps it up, we’ll have to remove her present from under the branches. After all, Santa doesn’t deliver to naughty children.
Even if the “child” in question is a cat.