Jos Biggs aving trouble with Mr Tommy Fluffypants !!
Rooted Ambition
There are some rules in our house; some lines in the sand that may not be overstepped. One of those rules is No animals in the bedrooms. Another one is No cats on the kitchen table.
Her Royal Highness Sayyida Al Hurra, despite her lofty status, is impeccably mannered in such matters. However, her son, Mr Tommy Fluffypants, is not. He knows the rules, and makes it his personal business to disregard them – he has no scruples and no conscience whatsoever, just a rooted ambition to mould the world to his personal preference.
This is a typical encounter:
‘Tommy, get off the table.’ I lift him off and put him on the floor, from where he regards me with the round-eyed surprise of the totally innocent.
‘But I wasn’t on the table.’
‘Yes you were.’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Tommy, I’ve just picked you off the table, so yes, it was you.’
‘No, it wasn’t me. Some invisible aliens kidnapped my body and put it on the table.'
‘No Tommy, it was you. There are no invisible aliens, it was you, you bad kittencat.’
‘But if the aliens are invisible, how do you know they aren’t there?’
The unwavering round-eyed stare continued. I felt it was time to shift ground, my argument was in danger of being shot down – by a cat!
‘You have been watching too much television. Invisible aliens are kept safe inside the television and they can’t get out. You are a bad, bad kittencat. You are telling fibs, and that is very, very bad. You are a bad, bad, bad kittencat.’
Obviously Tommy felt it was now time for him to change tack. Still without dropping his eyes from mine he reared up and wrapped his little soft paws around my thigh. ‘Cuddle me.’
‘No, you are a bad kittencat. You don’t get cuddles for being bad.’
‘If you don’t cuddle me I will be emotionally scarred for the rest of my life.’
‘Exactly how do you work that one out?’
‘You reprimanded me. Mr Spock said that if children are reprimanded they suffer emotional scarring for the rest of their lives, unless they are cuddled.’
I picked him up and cuddled him, a little bundle of boneless fur, his fluffy exterior hiding a mind with all the manipulative powers of Machiavelli. ‘You mean Dr Spock. Mr Spock is the man with the pointy ears.’
‘Whatever. Now, can I go in the bedroom?’
