I accidentally bought a flat. I never thought I could, or would, but, turns out when a one-armed investor with a yacht jacket thrown over his stump tries to take your home from you, you can take out a loan for a deposit, get an approval on a mortgage, and be finanically ruined for years, albeit with a roof over your head. I had always told myself that I would never leave De L’angle House unless some other place had two beds and a yard for the same price. And, I don’t know how, but I had a sense that my time there wasn’t going to last forever, especially after I slowly murdered Mrs Stuffington the gourmet mouse without realising it (more on that another time). Anyway, I’m writing this from the yard of my seriously kooky saddle-shop-cum-two-bed-flat in a village nearer the sea and with an even higher quota of people on zimmer frames than Chartham. I’m making these notes with one eye since I flicked a bit of moving tape into the other and gave myself quite the stye. I don’t know where or how to begin to tell the story of the move but Tamer insisted that I just start somewhere, so here we are. Last night, unsettled by an incredible incoming torrent of snot, and still getting used to a new place, I noticed the light in the yard switch on and off twice in succession. Given that my humble abode is hidden away from the street by a private gate, I thought I ought to be brave and check out who the intruder was. Looking back at me was a plump, incredulous black cat. We locked eyes and remained, unblinking. I don’t remember falling back to sleep. In fact, I have had this strange feeling close to my consciousness all day that somehow, somewhere, in another inky dimension, we’re still looking at each other, eyes as round as moons.
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I think you need to write a book.
See if that cat adopts you. X