My efforts to lower the tone of the street continue unabated. This doesn’t take a great deal of energy because I’m a lazy arse so making the place look untidy tends to come naturally. An example of my inactivity sits quietly outside. My Old Car, so tenderly retrieved from storage, still squats forlornly on my drive; doing what old cars, as opposed to new cars, do so effectively - nothing.
Today however, I roused myself to Make An Effort. Now this car hasn’t moved under its own power for close on seven years, nearly a quarter of its life but ever the wild fantasist, I thought I could just wire up a new battery and away we’d go. We didn't. We didn’t go anywhere. It made some half-hearted noises but didn’t burst into life as I’d hoped.
However, there was some compensation. It seems not everyone has suffered from having the car sat outside through the winter. The seats were covered in fur. Cat fur. Not just one colour though, dozens. White, grey, ginger, black, brown, you name it, somewhere within the interior there was fur. In fact I think I could recognise the hairs of most of the neighbourhood cats. Except, of course, my own. As if it’s not enough that they sneak into the house to devour our Stupid Cat’s food, it now appears that they’ve turned my classic car into some kind of pussy brothel. Bloody charming. Like the scene from Titanic, the windows have erotic paw prints on them. My old picnic blanket is passionately scrunched up in one corner. Tufts of hair are scattered around. Rather unpleasant smells hang in the air. It’s been one helluva party. That or a feline fight club. Or maybe a combination of the two. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
At least it explains why those telltale cat calls have been quite so muffled over the last few months.
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