Four's Enough

We have four cats due to Mothermouse’s compulsion; Allen, Harry, Betty and Ruby. The first two play fight like young lads should, the third is a partially demented great aunt and Ruby is a tart with a heart and 7Kgm of sitting power. Allen and Betty are from good homes where Harry and Ruby were rescues. Harry will eat everything and anybodies and get through all sorts of packaging. You’ll never know if you like Lemon Drizzle Cake till you try it, so our microwave is constantly full of items needing protective custody, butter, sausage rolls, Lemon Drizzle Cake, steak and gooseberry crumble. Anyway four is the max we can cope with. So friends of friends are not welcome alright. First it was Big Jinge, an honourable gentleman of the road who Allen had struck up an acquaintance with in the back garden. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ ‘Oh thanks, yes they’re lovely.’ ‘Any chance of some grub if I hang around?’ So Mothermouse put a bowl out for him. After that his hind quarters could be seen exiting the cat flap when going for a midnight bowl of Muesli. Domino, our ex cat who’d gone to live next door because he never got on with his brother, Dave, who sadly died, also comes round whenever next door doesn’t feed him because they’re young and prone to gallivanting about the country. Another mouth to feed. Then a week or so ago another black and white cat, BW, started hanging around angling for a comfortable squat. One night, Big Jinge and BW, were queueing at the cat flap to beat a hasty retreat. Since then BW has been playing the, ‘Hello Mister, lovely cat I am, knows mi place, no trouble just, you know, down on my luck. Can happen to anybody’ card. Last night he was curled up on a red cushion in the dining room. If cats had a forelock he was touching it. The one thing worth noting is they all get on so well, no this is our gaff bugger off, or this is my bowl of Gourmet, or you’re Ginger, I hate Gingers, or we have a comfortable suburban house and you’re homeless. OK so I’m the one with hang-ups but please don’t invite any more in, we can’t afford the vet bills. And before you ask, yes we do have an electronic cat flap, but Ruby won’t use it because it clicks when she puts her head in it.

Who’s the Racist?

So there’s been a right royal racist controversy between Ms Ngozi Fulani and Lady Suzan Hussey. The three races involved are the English, English royalty and some unnamed equatorial country. Being myself an indigenous English man, white skin, black garb, flat cap etc, I would bristle against royal condescension but understand Lady Hussey at 83 would have certain attitudes. Our conversation might go, ‘Where are you from? / Bolton mam / Really, where’s that? / North Manchester mam/ Lovely. Do you like it there? / Left when I was five mam / Really.’ and she would move on. Her conversation with Ms Fulani went, ‘Where are you from? / Utoxiter mam.’ Lady H, seeing before her a black woman in the bright colours of something like an African national dress, continued, ‘Yes but where are you really from?’ Ms Fulani in a flat denial of her African roots, which we are led to believe she would be rightly proud, continued, ‘I was born here, I’m British.’ This perplexed Lady H so she pursued the matter. This has now become evidence of institutional racism at the heart of our Monarchy. Actually it brings into question whether the status of being an indigenous English man has any meaning whatsoever. My family struggled over at least six generations through wars and the industrial revolution working in cotton mills, continuing a culture formed over 2,000 years. These are the roots I am proud of. Well not all together proud. We English went to America, India and Australia and assumed supremacy over their indigenous people so it’s only coming full circle. I don’t doubt Ms Fulani is a good person but accusing people of institutional racism contains an element of racism in itself. I know many people who deny being racist but few who are not.