Pete Hindle

As you might know, I’ve moved house. This new house I live in has a cat, which I’m looking after tonight.

So, the first chance it gets, the cat does a runner and I’m left shaking the box of cat kibbles in the back garden and feeling like an idiot. Ten minutes go by, then twenty, and then an hour, until I’m left thinking shit, the cat’s disappeared, the landlord’s going to come back and freak, and I’ll have to move out because it’ll be horribly awkward living with people who think I killed their cat. Well, it would, right?

I decided to go out and search for the cat. Turning round the front street, past the mosque, I go and check out the garages round the back. It’s dark, and I’ve got my grandfathers maglite in my hand. Oh, and the streets on fire.

That’s it, I think, I let the cat out and vandals obviously set it on fire. It’s not a great excuse, but at least it’s not my fault this time. Anyway, being a conscientious citizen I call the fire brigade, who come and put the fire out (everything else was just smoldering by this point, like the skip two doors down). I head back, and Masie the cat is finally ready to come in.