The man in question (a Mr Big to my Carrie Bradshaw, if you like) is a rather attractive tabby and white tom. He started hanging around my garden last week, culminating in a night-long declaration of his affections in the form of yowling outside my bedroom window. Always a sucker for a good singing voice, and giving him credit for persistence, we hooked up.
Unfortunately, my Mr Big proved to be about as reliable as his namesake, and after a whirlwind 48 hour romance he vanished, leaving me feeling used and humiliated.Having sought solace from my friends (sadly not over a Manhattan brunch, but on Facebook) I decided the loss was all his and that I was too good for him anyway.
As is so often the case, the effect of this was like catnip, and sure enough he was back a couple of nights later, taking up his old position at the bottom of the garden, waiting till we were all in bed before starting to serenade me.
Coming downstairs the following morning we found that, in addition to the singing, he had been in through the catflap and sprayed the downstairs hallway. (I tried to explain to my People that this is the feline equivalent of a dozen red roses, but they weren't having any of it.)
But this time I'm playing it cool. After all, I am still in my first flush of youth (you can draw your own comparison with Carrie Bradshaw here - enough Botox already, girlfriend!) and there may be a whole town of potential suitors out there just waiting to fall under my spell.
And of course I have to think of you, my readers. What would you all do if I traded my celebrity lifestyle for a life of boring domesticity?
So, sorry Mr Big, but no can do. I have dipped my paw in the pool of romance, but it is not for me. Yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment