Carole’s just rung me with sad news.

She’s out at the moment, babysitting her niece while her sister and brother-in-law are in London.

But she’s just had a phone call from Trisha, our neighbour, to say that Trixie – beloved gorgeous, super-friendly, adorable, loving fluffball Trixie – has been found dead at the end of the road, presumably hit by a car.

Absolutely gutted.

Not even our cat and I’m gutted. Trixie has been a part of our lives for the last eight months or so. You couldn’t go outside, or even open the door, without hearing the distinctive jingle of her collar. And now she’s gone.


She was a bloody lovely cat as well, despite what her owner may have said about her. There were always countless over-the-fence discussions about how unloving she was a cat. She couldn’t be stroked. She couldn’t be picked up and held. She was always clawing at things.

And she’d come to us and she’d be rolling over and letting us tickle her tummy, letting me pick her up and carry her around, rubbing herself on my legs and – mainly – eating anything we offered her.

I’d always put a little pile of cat biscuits out for her if I knew she was in the garden.

And only yesterday I happened to look up from what I was doing to find her staring intently through the front room window, the breath from her nostrils fogging up the glass. So, obviously, she came in for a little bit and sat on the inside windowsill eating biscuits and getting warm.

And now all that is gone.

When I got off the phone to Carole I came straight upstairs and gave Peppa a massive hug. And that started a long presentation about road safety. It’s the only way.

I saw everyone running down the road this afternoon as well. Now it makes all sorts of sense. I initially thought that the child of a lady further up the road must have toddled out of the garden and was meandering down the road, such was the speed she went at. But I guess that wasn’t the case.

I’m genuinely gutted.

Trixie was the best cat we never owned.


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