A group of writers in Chichester coming together once a month for inspiration, collaboration and sensation
The problem with cats, Percival thought ruefully as he cowered in a corner under the fridge, was that cats are universally unpredictable creatures. Loving, if slightly aloof companions when it came to humans and exemplary killing machines when it came to rodents. What was required, mused Percival as he waited for the family cat Bronson to stop prowling across the kitchen like a lion stalking a gazelle, was a manual. It would do wonders for mouse mortality. Your born, you pop out and on day one some well meaning mouse sidles up like a rodent Clint Eastwood and says “Hello old chap, how’s about a helping hand?” and hands you ‘Cats, a Rodents Guide’. Or possibly ‘The A-Z of Feline Phobias’. Percival knew exactly why one hadn’t been written of course. It was because writing a book on cats would require observing a cat, and when a mouse observed a cat, the cat was also simultaneous observing the mouse. This then inevitably led to it chasing the mouse and, with almost mundane predictability, the evisceration of the mouse in a whirling mass of fur a teeth. Mice rarely survived their feline encounters, and even rarer was the survival of one harbouring literary aspirations. In fact, the first thing that usually happened was the disbelieving escapee discovered a new lust for life, and then with all the vim and vigour of a born again Christian, left their wife, their homely two-up two-down hole in the skirting board and disappeared to a cheap motel with a younger mouse named after a low grade wine. No, their would be no manual any time soon. But bounding in was another solution, Rex, less dog and more a furry bag of springs. But a furry bag of springs which made a beeline for the cat like it was his new best friend. Bronson who wasn’t known to be socially minded especially with something that smells like a rotten sofa decided that exiting stage left via the cat flap was the only way to escape with his reputation and tail still intact. Percival who whilst enthralled at the sight of Rex blundering around the kitchen wearing a cat flap like a Jacobean ruff decided it was high time he left. With that he clutched his chunk of cheese to his chest like a mid west prospector clinging to his last gold nugget and scampered for the door.