Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Garden…

Having a cat, there are a few unpleasant things you know you’ll have to deal with.

Like waking up to the results of your cat’s latest experiment with eating grass, or finding an animal – or component parts of an animal – arranged for your approval. Or having a blackbird fly past you when you’re watching TV because your cat has decided it’s time for a play date and not bothered to ask you if it’s okay before inviting their friend round.

Flicking other cats’ poo out of your front garden, though, isn’t necessarily what I want to be doing with my life.

And, yes, it is other cats’ poo, as Peppa goes in the back garden and gets as muddy as is humanly possible before coming home and walking across anything – regardless of its importance – that you happen to have left out.

We’ve got a roofer coming tomorrow to fix the roof. As you would expect when a roofer is coming. Hopefully it will be an end to the leak that no longer leaks for whatever reason, and the knife edge of wind and black dust that attacks us as we sleep on breezy nights. It should be a straightforward job – it’s the guy who sorted out the back roof during the bathroom nightmare, and he was pretty darn good – but as it’s this house I’m half expecting to hear a crash and find him in the bedroom looking confused as it turns out that the front of the house was made out of tissue and dreams.

I mean, it does sound like the whole roof lifts off and resettles when it’s windy. So I’m full of confidence!

But yes, when he came to have a look at it and give us a quote the other day it turns out that the neighbourhood cats who enjoy claiming our front garden as their own – clearly expertly defended by Peppa – use the exact spot you would put a ladder if you wanted to access the roof to have a crap.

And they use it a lot.

A lot more than I was expecting, anyway.

It was a bit like that bit on Jurassic Park when the Triceratops is ill because it’s eating the wrong plants (despite all their meticulous research) and Jeff Goldblum strolls up and says “that’s one big pile of shit”.

I say a bit like. It was exactly that. Exact where that had come from a Triceratops, this had come from a collection of cat bums.

To paraphrase another Spielberg film, I thought I was gonna need a bigger shovel.