and I tried again. ‘Flirty by name, flighty by nature! You should look elsewhere. I am sure there are many ladies who would be only too ready to appreciate your … rugged charms.’ Yes, when necessity requires even I will – to use one of Bouncer’s own terms – lob the flannel.
He seized it eagerly. ‘I say, do you really think so? They’d like my rugged charms, would they?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said quickly, not wanting to go too far down that questionable path. He began to look smug.
‘So you think I should ditch her?’
‘Emphatically. She’s not worth the biscuit.’
I could see he was rapidly recovering, and was not surprised when he barked, ‘Biscuits! Where did I leave them? Under F.O.’s bed, I think.’ And wearing his special foraging expression he hurtled off towards the vicarage.
Later that afternoon, safe from the distractions of the vicarage, I was basking on my favourite tombstone, enjoying some rare moments of tranquillity. Then stretching languidly I sensed a slight movement from below, and glancing down found myself confronted by the upturned face of Gunga Din. Naturally, I fixed him with a hostile glare and prepared to make a scene, but before I could do so he said solemnly, ‘Hullo, I’ve come to play.’
I was in no mood for playing, and least of all with that inebriate. However, being a cat of impeccable manners I said graciously that I was feeling a little tired but knew a good game that he might like and in which I would join him later. He pondered and then asked what sort of game.
‘You see that tree over there?’ I said, flicking my tail in the direction of a large chestnut. He nodded. ‘Well, it’s quite fun competing to see how many times one can run round it without feeling dizzy. Bouncer and I often do that. You go and practise and I’ll be over soon.’ He wheezed off towards the tree and I watched as he slowly proceeded to circumambulate its trunk. A few seconds later I had slipped off the tombstone and was making my way back to the vicarage.
Halfway there I bumped into Bouncer who said, ‘I’ve just seen old Gunga. He hadn’t got his harness on – must have escaped from Tubbly. What’s he up to?’
‘Walking round a tree,’ I replied.
‘What’s he doing that for?’
‘Seeing how long it takes him to feel dizzy. It’s a new game.’
‘Doesn’t sound much of a game to me,’ growled Bouncer. ‘Still, I’ll go and take a look,’ and he trotted off towards the graveyard. I continued on my way, thinking that with Bouncer thus occupied and F.O. about to go off to one of those dire bell-ringing sessions I might manage a quiet nap.
I woke to the sound of him chewing his rubber ring. ‘How did you get on?’ I asked with interest.
‘Quite well,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a bad game.’
‘Really?’ I said in surprise. ‘I should have thought it was a trifle boring.’
He grinned. ‘Not the way I played it. Bit his arse.’ And with one of his coarser guffaws he bounded off into the kitchen. Just occasionally Bouncer makes quite a diverting companion.
At that moment F.O. came mooching into the room and folded himself into the armchair. He was clearly in one of his twitchy moods and I surmised the bell-ringing hadn’t gone too well or something had happened to shake his nerve. It doesn’t take much. Mind you, dispatching one of your parishioners must be quite an onerous matter and ideally would require a disposition of steely sangfroid. This our master does not possess. Nevertheless, though lacking the qualities of a competent murderer, he had so far managed to elude suspicion (partly due to my ingenuity with the cigarette lighter, as detailed in my previous Memoir) and the case had conveniently tailed off.
So what was causing his current state it was hard to tell – unless of course it had something to do with the adventof that Tubbly woman and her dropsical bulldog (the latter enough to induce a decline in anyone!). I remembered
He seized it eagerly. ‘I say, do you really think so? They’d like my rugged charms, would they?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said quickly, not wanting to go too far down that questionable path. He began to look smug.
‘So you think I should ditch her?’
‘Emphatically. She’s not worth the biscuit.’
I could see he was rapidly recovering, and was not surprised when he barked, ‘Biscuits! Where did I leave them? Under F.O.’s bed, I think.’ And wearing his special foraging expression he hurtled off towards the vicarage.
Later that afternoon, safe from the distractions of the vicarage, I was basking on my favourite tombstone, enjoying some rare moments of tranquillity. Then stretching languidly I sensed a slight movement from below, and glancing down found myself confronted by the upturned face of Gunga Din. Naturally, I fixed him with a hostile glare and prepared to make a scene, but before I could do so he said solemnly, ‘Hullo, I’ve come to play.’
I was in no mood for playing, and least of all with that inebriate. However, being a cat of impeccable manners I said graciously that I was feeling a little tired but knew a good game that he might like and in which I would join him later. He pondered and then asked what sort of game.
‘You see that tree over there?’ I said, flicking my tail in the direction of a large chestnut. He nodded. ‘Well, it’s quite fun competing to see how many times one can run round it without feeling dizzy. Bouncer and I often do that. You go and practise and I’ll be over soon.’ He wheezed off towards the tree and I watched as he slowly proceeded to circumambulate its trunk. A few seconds later I had slipped off the tombstone and was making my way back to the vicarage.
Halfway there I bumped into Bouncer who said, ‘I’ve just seen old Gunga. He hadn’t got his harness on – must have escaped from Tubbly. What’s he up to?’
‘Walking round a tree,’ I replied.
‘What’s he doing that for?’
‘Seeing how long it takes him to feel dizzy. It’s a new game.’
‘Doesn’t sound much of a game to me,’ growled Bouncer. ‘Still, I’ll go and take a look,’ and he trotted off towards the graveyard. I continued on my way, thinking that with Bouncer thus occupied and F.O. about to go off to one of those dire bell-ringing sessions I might manage a quiet nap.
I woke to the sound of him chewing his rubber ring. ‘How did you get on?’ I asked with interest.
‘Quite well,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a bad game.’
‘Really?’ I said in surprise. ‘I should have thought it was a trifle boring.’
He grinned. ‘Not the way I played it. Bit his arse.’ And with one of his coarser guffaws he bounded off into the kitchen. Just occasionally Bouncer makes quite a diverting companion.
At that moment F.O. came mooching into the room and folded himself into the armchair. He was clearly in one of his twitchy moods and I surmised the bell-ringing hadn’t gone too well or something had happened to shake his nerve. It doesn’t take much. Mind you, dispatching one of your parishioners must be quite an onerous matter and ideally would require a disposition of steely sangfroid. This our master does not possess. Nevertheless, though lacking the qualities of a competent murderer, he had so far managed to elude suspicion (partly due to my ingenuity with the cigarette lighter, as detailed in my previous Memoir) and the case had conveniently tailed off.
So what was causing his current state it was hard to tell – unless of course it had something to do with the adventof that Tubbly woman and her dropsical bulldog (the latter enough to induce a decline in anyone!). I remembered
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