The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

This week, out of the goodness of my heart, I treated me and my cat to a takeaway. I’m not a rich man so food cooked by professionals that actually know what they’re doing is a rare treat and I was looking forward to it. It was a warm day so the back door was already open when the much anticipated knock came on the front door. I grabbed my wallet, ready to hand over a generous tip to the kindly delivery driver and opened the front door.

Time slowed to a crawl. Startled by the appearance nearby of another human, Stan, whom I had previously assumed loved me in that unaffectionate, disinterested, self-obsessed way that only cats can, made a break for his traditional front bedroom hiding place. As he bolted past the living room door, the newly created wind tunnel in my house slammed it shut on his tail. He screamed and sank his teeth into my leg.

Blood started to gush from the wound. I would’ve immediately tried to dislodge the insane feline from my flesh but I was halfway through using the card machine to pay the bill so I attempted to finish that first and act as if I wasn’t in more pain than childbirth. I got my curry and shut the front door, assuring the alarmed delivery chap that I probably wasn’t about to die from blood loss.

Then, aromatic grub abandoned nearby, I removed the door from Stan’s tail allowing him to bolt to safety. There was literally blood everywhere. Well, I say everywhere. There was quite a lot on my leg and several drops on the floor. Howling like a cat with its tail stuck in a door, I stumbled upstairs and wrapped a towel around my ruined limb. It stemmed the blood but not the pain.

That pain is still there, days later. If I walk a lot, my ankle swells up and starts throbbing. Obviously, I haven’t spoken to anyone with any kind of knowledge or medical insight but, for my money, the wound will be permanently disfiguring and probably never heal. Instead of touring rural orchards, I’ve been spending much of the last fortnight sat inside scowling at Stan as he saunters past on his way to another important appointment licking his balls. Guilt does not seem to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

That might all sound like a lengthy excuse for not writing a blog post, and it is, but there is some crap point to it all. That point is, don’t trust things you love because everything is basically terrible and likely to betray your affection.

Conversely, I received a text message from Shaun d’Arcy Burt this week that invited a phone call. Mr d’Arcy Burt, you probably won’t recall, was the previous owner of an allotment packed with heritage fruit trees in Louth, who was purported to have been cast out of polite allotment society for dereliction of mowing duty.

I confess that I had assumed the scurrilous rumours I had been peddled about this allotment were all true and his business plan had come to naught, but the gentleman himself presented a very different story over the phone. Obviously, I have no way of knowing which story is true but I can definitely say that if Mr d’Arcy isn’t the friendliest and most helpful person I’ve yet contacted about the blog, he’s in the top one.

Instead of being a lawnmower-hating bankrupt, he still runs his successful heritage tree business and is frequently away delivering talks and advising people how to set up their own tree havens. He sells the real thing as well from his base near Louth. Rather than the state of his grass-patch, he alleges that he was ejected from the allotment for political reasons and his treatment isn’t unusual if you check the rates of allotment related crime.

A swift Google search did in fact reveal myriad other stories relating to politics and shenanigans going on within allotment societies so there’s definitely a chance that he’s telling the truth. I honestly can’t say but I have no reason to disbelieve him. What really happened on those dark allotment days may perhaps never be revealed. I guess the world will just carry on turning but I hope resentment doesn’t take root (I was going to say no pun intended but to be honest that barely qualifies so I’ll not bother). Allotments and the growing of things should be a joyous endeavour for all involved. According to me, who knows literally nothing.

Anyway, added to the diary for some point in the next couple of weeks is a visit to his home where we can discuss what trees would be ideal for the Ticklepenny Orchard and how best I can go about making them grow and yield beautiful fruit for future generations. Not that I intend to have any future generations. Maybe I should pick apple trees that produce toxic offspring that only looks tasty. That’ll teach ‘em!

So there you go, one story involving a beloved companion who turned out to be a snide villain with massive teeth and a thirst for blood (specifically, mine) and one concerning the assumed perpetrator of villainy who turned out to be an absolute prince of men. You just never know. Although you can be reasonably confident that all cats are malevolent shitbags.