that makes sense,’ I said at last. Then something occurred to me. ‘What about Ms P though? Can she understand you?’
Kaboodle yawned and flicked his tail irritably. ‘Never mind about her – I think it’s time we had a little chat about you, Bertie.’ ‘Me?’
‘Yes. You. I’ve been watching you very closely as I said, and I happen to think I am just the friend you’ve been looking for, though I say so myself Kaboodle purred loudly and
wound himself in and out of my legs, rubbing his soft fur against me.
I couldn’t help smiling. This mini-cat had a mega-attitude, but I couldn’t help liking him. Actually, I realized, he reminded me a bit of Jazz. I chuckled softly to myself.
Kaboodle stopped his weaving movements and looked up sharply ‘What are you laughing at?’ he snapped.
‘Oh, er – I’m just a bit ticklish when you do that,’ I fibbed. I was pretty sure Kaboodle wouldn’t be chuffed at the comparison with my mouthy mate.
Then something occurred to me. ‘Kaboodle,’ I ventured. ‘I mean, Oba-wotsit—’
‘Please – if you can’t say it properly, don’t say it at all,’ he snapped.
I winced. ‘OK. Kaboodle – erm,would you like to come and stay with me while Ms P is away?’
Kaboodle purred so loudly, he sounded like an engine. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said. ‘But how will your father feel about that, I wonder?’
‘Oh, we won’t tell him,’ I said vaguely, pushing aside the nagging doubts that were rushing in to crowd my mind.
‘Well, you can count on me to keep my head down,’ said Kaboodle, pushing against me again. ‘We cats are masters of deception, you know. Now then, how about that hug? It’s
getting exceptionally chilly hanging around out here.’
K aboodle had agreed to lie low so that Dad wouldn’t suspect anything. As it turned out I was very thankful that he was prepared to go along
with my request, because Dad came home later that day in the foulest mood I had seen him in for a very long time.
The first bad sign was the sound of the door being slammed hard enough to wrench it off its hinges and possibly take the house walls with it. Then Dad whirled into the kitchen where I had been
opening a tin of tuna for Kaboodle, scowled and banged his laptop down on the kitchen table.
A panicky sick feeling rocketed up from my stomach and swirled round my chest.
‘Multi-storey blinking car parks!’ Dad barked. ‘I’ve had it up to here with people who get their pathetic little knickers in a twist about things as deathly dull as
multi-blinking-storey-blinking-car-blinking-parks!’ he muttered crossly. ‘I am a writer !’ he carried on, as if to himself. ‘I should be writing epic works of fiction
or dramatic works of art to add to the nation’s canon of literary talent, not scribbling ranty little columns in that rag that calls itself a newspaper!’
I let my breath out slowly and quietly and tiptoed over to put the kettle on. ‘A cup of tea always wo rks wonders,’ as Jazz’s mum would say .
Dad sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said wearily, as though he’d only just noticed I was in the room. ‘Bad day. How’re you? Hey –
aren’t you supposed to be at Jazz’s?’ he added, squinting at me.
‘Oh, I er – yeah, I was at Jazz’s,’ I began. I had my you’ve-caught-me-red-handed face on – a sort of a cross between a grin and a grimace.
Dad raised his eyebrows and waited.
‘But we, er, we kind of had a falling out, so I came home a bit early,’ I said lightly. ‘I’ve only been on my own for about five minutes.’ ( Thanks to Kaboodle
who’d only just gone out into the garden.)
‘You girls,’ said Dad, shaking his head. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Nah,’ I grinned, in the hope I could coax a whole smile out of him. ‘You know what Jazz is like. Reckons she’s our school’s answer to Madonna. She was doing one of
those routines
Kaboodle yawned and flicked his tail irritably. ‘Never mind about her – I think it’s time we had a little chat about you, Bertie.’ ‘Me?’
‘Yes. You. I’ve been watching you very closely as I said, and I happen to think I am just the friend you’ve been looking for, though I say so myself Kaboodle purred loudly and
wound himself in and out of my legs, rubbing his soft fur against me.
I couldn’t help smiling. This mini-cat had a mega-attitude, but I couldn’t help liking him. Actually, I realized, he reminded me a bit of Jazz. I chuckled softly to myself.
Kaboodle stopped his weaving movements and looked up sharply ‘What are you laughing at?’ he snapped.
‘Oh, er – I’m just a bit ticklish when you do that,’ I fibbed. I was pretty sure Kaboodle wouldn’t be chuffed at the comparison with my mouthy mate.
Then something occurred to me. ‘Kaboodle,’ I ventured. ‘I mean, Oba-wotsit—’
‘Please – if you can’t say it properly, don’t say it at all,’ he snapped.
I winced. ‘OK. Kaboodle – erm,would you like to come and stay with me while Ms P is away?’
Kaboodle purred so loudly, he sounded like an engine. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said. ‘But how will your father feel about that, I wonder?’
‘Oh, we won’t tell him,’ I said vaguely, pushing aside the nagging doubts that were rushing in to crowd my mind.
‘Well, you can count on me to keep my head down,’ said Kaboodle, pushing against me again. ‘We cats are masters of deception, you know. Now then, how about that hug? It’s
getting exceptionally chilly hanging around out here.’
K aboodle had agreed to lie low so that Dad wouldn’t suspect anything. As it turned out I was very thankful that he was prepared to go along
with my request, because Dad came home later that day in the foulest mood I had seen him in for a very long time.
The first bad sign was the sound of the door being slammed hard enough to wrench it off its hinges and possibly take the house walls with it. Then Dad whirled into the kitchen where I had been
opening a tin of tuna for Kaboodle, scowled and banged his laptop down on the kitchen table.
A panicky sick feeling rocketed up from my stomach and swirled round my chest.
‘Multi-storey blinking car parks!’ Dad barked. ‘I’ve had it up to here with people who get their pathetic little knickers in a twist about things as deathly dull as
multi-blinking-storey-blinking-car-blinking-parks!’ he muttered crossly. ‘I am a writer !’ he carried on, as if to himself. ‘I should be writing epic works of fiction
or dramatic works of art to add to the nation’s canon of literary talent, not scribbling ranty little columns in that rag that calls itself a newspaper!’
I let my breath out slowly and quietly and tiptoed over to put the kettle on. ‘A cup of tea always wo rks wonders,’ as Jazz’s mum would say .
Dad sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said wearily, as though he’d only just noticed I was in the room. ‘Bad day. How’re you? Hey –
aren’t you supposed to be at Jazz’s?’ he added, squinting at me.
‘Oh, I er – yeah, I was at Jazz’s,’ I began. I had my you’ve-caught-me-red-handed face on – a sort of a cross between a grin and a grimace.
Dad raised his eyebrows and waited.
‘But we, er, we kind of had a falling out, so I came home a bit early,’ I said lightly. ‘I’ve only been on my own for about five minutes.’ ( Thanks to Kaboodle
who’d only just gone out into the garden.)
‘You girls,’ said Dad, shaking his head. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Nah,’ I grinned, in the hope I could coax a whole smile out of him. ‘You know what Jazz is like. Reckons she’s our school’s answer to Madonna. She was doing one of
those routines
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