Lady Marmalade’s Minutes:
musings of THE Cat in the Flat
Oh, hello there. Have we met?
In case you don’t know me, I’m Lady Marmalade. I live in a rather splendid flat and have two hoomins to serve me. In return, I must look after them. If you think that’s a good deal, you don’t know much about looking after hoomins.
Mostly I occupy the windowsill in the living room, which allows me to stretch to my full length and suits me perfectly. I pose and preen, and get admiring comments on my lustrous ginger fur and my perfect markings. There was a piece in the newspaper about beauty and facial symmetry. Perhaps you saw it? It was in my litter tray not long ago.
From here, I also keep tabs on everyone and make sure they’re behaving. I’ll bet you didn’t know that the cleaner does not clean for his full contracted hours. He spends at least an hour every morning in his van reading the Sun.
I’m actually a VIP (Very Important Puss). My momma and poppa took part in leasehold enfranchisement, so they now own the freehold to my flat. It has already increased the value of the property, I heard Momma say, so I’m now even more important.
Both my hoomins do a lot for this building. Apparently I’m not on the management committee. Oh, yeah? I practically RUN it. I hosted a committee meeting here only last night. Someone in the corner ignored me all evening as she was too busy taking the minutes. It took hours, believe me. I rewarded her for her lack of attention by rubbing myself all evening against her new black trouser suit.
The agenda was overly long, as per usual. It included choosing new doormats, replacing mirrors in the hall, raising objections to a planning application to build a basement next door, and discussing progress on the new communal boiler. The old boiler was the size of the QE2 (I’ve no idea what that is) and contained asbestos (no idea either, but it sounds very bad). Work is proceeding on the new boiler, Poppa assured the committee, but he’s not sure why it’s going more slowly than planned.
Well, that one’s easy. It’s because the lonely old biddy at number 4 got Rambo the heating engineer to pop over every single afternoon last week to make her tea and buttered toast. She’s a cunning old thing, and no mistake.
I was pretty parched by that stage of the meeting, and nobody had put out any drinks for me. But the Muslim couple from the top floor flat had glasses of water instead of wine, which was fine by me.
Honestly, these meetings try to cover too many topics. Cats in their infinite wisdom know that it’s unhealthy to try to do too much at once, which is why we do just one thing at a time, and then only when we can’t get someone to do it for us.
During Any Other Business, a creepy-looking guy piped up to ask if dogs could be allowed in the block.
My hackles rose and my tail grew to the size of a toilet brush. This meeting had gone on far too long and called for serious measures. I slunk off to my litter tray. As a result the meeting was abandoned two minutes later.
(As told to Carol Cooper)