My dad never liked cats. And when I say ‘never’, I mean ‘never ever’. He was the sort of man who would hiss, spit and shout if a cat had the audacity to enter our garden. ‘Nasty creatures,’ he’d say. ‘And they dig up the bulbs and do their business everywhere.’ Not that Dad was much of a gardener, as I was constantly pointing out whenever a cat dared to use one of the plant pots on the patio as a public loo. ‘You’re not exactly into gardening, Dad, so what does it matter?’ ‘It matters, Bertie, because I’m never going to get the chance to be “into gardening”, as you put it, if every time I plant so much as a single puny snowdrop, a cat comes along and chucks the bulb over its shoulder and pees in the hole it’s left behind.’ I gave Dad my usual response to anything ridiculous that he said: I rolled my eyes. As if cats went around chucking things over their shoulders! Anyone with half an ounce of brain knew that this kind of thing never happened.
