Pole position

Now the household has settled down after the loss of Malmesley, the four legged members have rearranged their sleeping places. Goggins, downstairs as ever, no longer sleeps on the sofa at night, prefering the centre of the new living room carpet and the vantage point it affords. From here he can keep an eye on the hall door and thus anyone who happens to come down the stairs while simultaneously surveying the cat flap in the kitchen.

Misty wanders about half the night, in and out the cat flap for a pastime, skittering round Goggins in case that elderly gentleman should give him a quick smack as he passes. When he does settle down it is on what we have come to think of as Malmesley's chair. This is an old 'TV' chair I inherited from an aunt; re-covered it was just the thing to fill a space under the window. Fourteen years ago Malmesley claimed it and no-one else was allowed to get even near it. WH coming in from work would dump jacket, keys, odd tools, sets of plans, lunchbox on it, an ever changing assortment that Malmesley fiercely disapproved of and would reproach us for until the offending articles were removed. "Sorry Malmesley, I forgot you need to sit there". Misty has now claimed this as his own, the diminutive Top Cat in his own little kingdom.

Nelson, now freed from the annoyance of having Misty amd Malmesley competing for a space on my bed for part of each night has settled for the bottom right hand corner. After his nightly cuddle, he always was a Mummy's boy, he settles down undisturbed and mostly stays all night, only occasionally deserting this for the comfort of the washing basket on the nearby chest.

The outside cats, for once again we have two, compete for the dry space under the garden table. Napoleon, real name Merlin who is supposed to have owners nearby but who is always cold, hungry and bedraggled, sits there stoically, resigned to his fate, night after night; patient in case the back door should suddenly open and a bowl of food appear. Vertical, the young pretender, a massive but very short cat with seemingly no legs when he walks, has made a bid for the same space. Nightly now we have fights and skirmishes as they jockey for position. Napoleon usually ends up on the door mat alongside the catflap and hence has first claim on any emerging food. This morning though, he has a new outlook, sitting on top of the black recycle boxes, thoughtfully provided by the local council for old newspapers, now just the spot to look down on the rest of the garden and it's lesser inhabitants.