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Authors: Kerry Greenwood
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quiet morning. I took my breakfast out onto the balcony where Trudi’s green leafy things were (remarkably) still alive and idly watched the alley. Always something to watch in Calico Alley.
The day had clouded over. We might actually get some rain. Horatio, who is a very good forecaster (he hates getting wet and is convinced that rain is caused by some negligent human omitting to keep the sky in good repair), had moved under the canopy and was washing his ears. Rain coming, all right. I didn’t have to go out. I had yielded to laziness and emailed my grocery order to the supermarket. I was tired of hauling all those heavy tins of cat food up to the apartment. Did the cats thank me for it? They did not. Let someone who is paid to haul things haul them. My excuse was that bakers put a lot of strain on their backs already, heaving sacks of flour around, and I should preserve my spinal health. It was a good excuse and I was sticking to it.
And here came the grocery van, on schedule. Brisk persons in dustcoats got out those ingenious trolley things and began wheeling boxes into the building. I opened my door for a young man who wheeled the trolley in, unloaded the boxes, smiled, and was gone in an instant. But not before I noticed that the other boxes were marked for Pluto, and that Mr White had laid in really quite a lot of booze and what looked like the whole range of frozen cuisine.
I put away the groceries. Since someone else was carrying it I had bought a new sack of kitty litter, enough tinned cat food to feed a group of full grown tigers, and a lot of heavy things like new bottles of brandy and gin, a fresh chateau collapseau, a lot of potatoes, ingredients for a number of meals and soups: lentils, dried beans, chicken stock, vegetables and both ham hocks and lamb shanks. I stuffed all the perishables into my commodious fridge and went back to the balcony. I had a new Jade Forrester. And another cup of coffee. And although slightly sore in several places which hadn’t felt any friction since I left James, I was very happy.
Mrs Dawson came past just as it began to rain, and opened one of the most beautiful umbrellas I had ever seen. It was patterned with Van Gogh sunflowers. It cheered the whole alley until she disappeared inside, furling it as she went. Her silk shirt was mushroom pink today, softening her severe grey serge trouser suit. We at Insula were lucky to have a woman of such impeccable taste living amongst us. I made a mental note to be watching when she went to church tomorrow. I was quite sure that Mrs Dawson would go to the cathedral for matins.
I could see down the lane a little. Heavenly Pleasures was open and doing good business, to judge by the number of people who passed with little blue and gold boxes in their hands or tucking them into pockets. I reflected on the strange position which chocolate held in my society. How had a paste made of crushed cocoa-beans become so important? How had a bitter bean come to mean comfort, reconciliation and kindness? These were deep matters.
I finished my coffee and pottered off to do Saturday things. The washing. Feeding the Mouse Police and cleaning out two litter trays. Reading all the bits of the paper which did not concern politics, due to politics at present not being good for my digestion or my temper. Meroe came to the door at noon with her furry yoyo and a basket of her special salad leaves, which (despite what she says) I know are flown in by express broomstick from Fairyland every morning. Nothing earthly tastes that good.
Set down, Lucifer immediately dived on Horatio, who, woken from rightful slumber, hissed and swiped before he realised that he was slapping a kitten. Then he ascended the sofa and sat with his back to us, mortified.
‘How is Belladonna taking this invasion of kitten?’ I asked, laying out cheese and bread and various fruits of the earth.
‘With complete lack of poise,’ sighed Meroe. ‘She refuses to leave the shop if
The day had clouded over. We might actually get some rain. Horatio, who is a very good forecaster (he hates getting wet and is convinced that rain is caused by some negligent human omitting to keep the sky in good repair), had moved under the canopy and was washing his ears. Rain coming, all right. I didn’t have to go out. I had yielded to laziness and emailed my grocery order to the supermarket. I was tired of hauling all those heavy tins of cat food up to the apartment. Did the cats thank me for it? They did not. Let someone who is paid to haul things haul them. My excuse was that bakers put a lot of strain on their backs already, heaving sacks of flour around, and I should preserve my spinal health. It was a good excuse and I was sticking to it.
And here came the grocery van, on schedule. Brisk persons in dustcoats got out those ingenious trolley things and began wheeling boxes into the building. I opened my door for a young man who wheeled the trolley in, unloaded the boxes, smiled, and was gone in an instant. But not before I noticed that the other boxes were marked for Pluto, and that Mr White had laid in really quite a lot of booze and what looked like the whole range of frozen cuisine.
I put away the groceries. Since someone else was carrying it I had bought a new sack of kitty litter, enough tinned cat food to feed a group of full grown tigers, and a lot of heavy things like new bottles of brandy and gin, a fresh chateau collapseau, a lot of potatoes, ingredients for a number of meals and soups: lentils, dried beans, chicken stock, vegetables and both ham hocks and lamb shanks. I stuffed all the perishables into my commodious fridge and went back to the balcony. I had a new Jade Forrester. And another cup of coffee. And although slightly sore in several places which hadn’t felt any friction since I left James, I was very happy.
Mrs Dawson came past just as it began to rain, and opened one of the most beautiful umbrellas I had ever seen. It was patterned with Van Gogh sunflowers. It cheered the whole alley until she disappeared inside, furling it as she went. Her silk shirt was mushroom pink today, softening her severe grey serge trouser suit. We at Insula were lucky to have a woman of such impeccable taste living amongst us. I made a mental note to be watching when she went to church tomorrow. I was quite sure that Mrs Dawson would go to the cathedral for matins.
I could see down the lane a little. Heavenly Pleasures was open and doing good business, to judge by the number of people who passed with little blue and gold boxes in their hands or tucking them into pockets. I reflected on the strange position which chocolate held in my society. How had a paste made of crushed cocoa-beans become so important? How had a bitter bean come to mean comfort, reconciliation and kindness? These were deep matters.
I finished my coffee and pottered off to do Saturday things. The washing. Feeding the Mouse Police and cleaning out two litter trays. Reading all the bits of the paper which did not concern politics, due to politics at present not being good for my digestion or my temper. Meroe came to the door at noon with her furry yoyo and a basket of her special salad leaves, which (despite what she says) I know are flown in by express broomstick from Fairyland every morning. Nothing earthly tastes that good.
Set down, Lucifer immediately dived on Horatio, who, woken from rightful slumber, hissed and swiped before he realised that he was slapping a kitten. Then he ascended the sofa and sat with his back to us, mortified.
‘How is Belladonna taking this invasion of kitten?’ I asked, laying out cheese and bread and various fruits of the earth.
‘With complete lack of poise,’ sighed Meroe. ‘She refuses to leave the shop if
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