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Treacle's diary. Extracts from the blog of a feline secret agent.

Wendesday 7 December. 0:15-1:00 hours
Curiosity kills
Okay, here's a challenge. It's large, ceramic, and has ghastly flowers painted on the outside. It's a container, largish, and the top is open. But what's it for? What's inside? I don't know, and it's driving me nuts.

Junior staff came back from some kind of expedition outside the house, and they came back with this trophy. Female staff put it on the mantlepiece, and then stood back and looked at it proudly, whilst I butted her on the leg plaintively asking what was going on.

They do it to tease me, you know. I am the cat with a thousand secrets, so they get their petty revenge by having a few of their own. It's pathetic. They can't hide things from me. I can think rings around them. So now it's after midnight, and Operation Discover has begun.

It's not easy getting onto the mantlepiece, but if you go up the back of this armchair, you can spring here, and land on the mantlepiece like a shadow. Tippy-toe up to the container, paws up to the rim. Heavens, it is high, craning my neck to see almost there, and, and ... aargh!

Well, well. It was empty after all.
Sunday 28 November, 10.00 - 13.00 hours
I've just finished a busy morning, and am now parked in my secret corner under the rhodedendrons, drying out my whiskers. I could tell you what I've been doing, but then you would know, and what would that do for my mysterious, glamorous image? So sorry, need-to-know and all that stuff.

At present I'm combining grooming with a bit of survelliance. We have an intruder in the garden, and I'm watching him carefully. He came charging down the path a few minutes ago, and met female junior staff. They have been talking excitedly ever since. At first I think the intruder is selling something, because female staff is saying 'No' and 'impossible', and 'can't' quite often. But I recognise this individual - he's local. I smelt his scent just this morning in fact.

Normally I leave female staff to deal with these things alone - it's part of what she is for, after all. But this intruder seems particularly determined - he is almost shouting. I guess my diplomatic skills are needed to smooth things over. It looks as though my morning's work was well worth it.

I pick up my prize and come trotting over. Here, you two, stop argueing and share this. It's called a koi something-or-the other, carp, I think. Fresh from the fishpond over the road. The other one was delicious.
17 - 19 November.
Missing in action
It's been a tough night - I ran a stakeout on the garden two doors down - currently there is no cat there, so its MINE. Sadly a few local mogs think otherwise, though after tonight Fluffy's humans might need to revise her name. A lot of the afore-mentioned fluff is now scattered around my successful ambush site behind the potting shed.

Back to HQ for breakfast, as male staff is rushing out to the car. He's been out a lot lately, either in dark suit, colourful rugby jersey or white sporty clothes. And occasionally as I enjoy the warm summer nights on top of the garage roof, I note his late return from nocturnal amusements.

As I'm leaving the house, I glance at female staff. If she had a tail, it would be bristling. Definitely time to escape. I do my rounds, lay a few scent markers just to let everyone know I'm about, pop back for a quick round of kitty-bics, and head for the top of neighbour's wall for a snooze.

Have just got back for my evening snack when male staff rushes in. I clean a bit of turkey jelly off my whiskers, and before I'm finished he rushes downstairs again in a change of clothing. I'm following him to the door when female staff suddenly yells

'That's it - go on, push off. You treat this place as if it were a hotel!'

I glare accusingly at male staff. I'd like to rub in his guilt. But I'm already late if Luigi's on the corner is going to have anything spicy left for dessert.
Thursday 4 November, 10.00-10.30 hours
Puddy tat
I'm curled up in a patch of sun on the carpet, wondering whether to roll into the shade or let my blood temperature climb a few degrees nearer boiling. In my sun-induced stupor, I pay little attention to a commotion at the door. Presumably the junior management is dealing with a postman, salesman, or other riff-raff which needs to be moved from the doorstep.

Next thing I know, this apparition in an orange dress is bearing down on me, and a large wrinkly face with far too much lipstick is reaching out red-tipped claws to savage my tummy. The creature preceeds her attack with a battle cry along the lines of

'Oooooooooh wad a nickle-wickle liddle pwecious, you soooo cute I could just eat you!'

I'm not even aware of bounding onto the sofa - pure horror plus adrenaline took control of my muscles. I start reflexively washing my ears while I look at this monstrous creature with disgust and fascination. Behind her, junior female staff is watching with a mixture of embarassment and consternation. I know what she is thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing. I came close to ripping my own ear off because the claws on my paws have inadvertently become extended. After all, do things like this deserve to live?

'Who da cuddest liddle ikkle-pie?'

The creature lumbers toward me again, so I flow off the sofa and plop myself out of reach on the rug. I glare at junior female staff who is obviously responsible for introducing this abberation into my peaceful morning. It's not dangerous, I have now established - merely a sad, demented creature with some form of cuddly toy fixation.

'Idnt dat fur soooooo soft and shiny, ohhh come here so I can give you a lubberly hug!'

I try to shut up this gibbering idiot with a basilisk stare which suggests that any lovely hugging will be followed by lovely disembowelling as fast as I can get my back legs into play. It does not work, so I abandon the room in disgust. Junior staff can get this madwoman off the premises. Ikle-wickle puddykins is going into the back garden to kill something.
Saturday 17 October. 16.00-16.30 hours
Flea for your life
She's moved across to cover the exit, he's sauntering over with such nonchalance that my whiskers start to tingle. We're going to play 'catch' aren't we? Okay, I'm game ...

I lie dozing on the carpet, pretending not to notice until Junior male staff makes his move, and then I am out of the blocks like an olympic sprinter. Female staff slams the door shut in my face, and I spin away, and under the sofa. Sofa backs against the wall - so I can see their legs on two sides. I shoot out of the third, knocking some cups off the coffee table as I bound over it.

Drat, cornered again! Dodge groping hands and shoot up one of the curtains. Get near the top, and the curtain starts popping off the rings, (yes, I know, that diet ...). I make it to the mantlepiece with a spectacular mid-air twist, and sprint along it, sending china ornaments and photos flying in all directions. Better than a James Bond car chase this is ...

Nearly run straight into the arms of junior male staff, but instead use the top of his head to vault high into the air, and find a grip on the light fitting. There is a pause as I swing back and forth, solemnly studying the upturned faces a few feet below. A muttered conference, and female staff comes back with a broom. Is this covered by the rules?

Ow! I'm prodded hard in the ribs, and make a wild leap for the sofa. Male staff intercepts with a flying save that is certainly better than anything I've seen the hapless England goalkeeper make on the telly. Together we crash into the coffee table, and all four legs break off, each splaying in a different direction.

Okay, guys, you've got me. I wriggle like a landed eel, but they are going to rub that goo on me, its kind of traditional. I let them do it in good spirit, its a sort of after-game horseplay. Then I wander outside. They probably want to be left in peace to tidy up.

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