Cat-sitting

We've been looking after mum and dad's cat, Samantha, this week. I went up to Sudbury yesterday morning by bus and train - it took three times as long as it would have done in the car (not helped by one of my infamous shortcuts), but I enjoyed it anyway, and all for under £8. I'm sure a 30-mile round trip costs less than £8 in petrol, but I wonder what other hidden costs there are (tax, insurance, wear-and-tear on the car, etc)?

Anyway, Sam is 15 years old and very skinny, although I'm pretty sure she's put on weight since they moved here in August. The fact she's 15 means she's the last surviving link - if we excuse such trivialities as myself and my family - to Gorse Bank, the place I spent 13 years growing up in before going to university and then on to Bath. She's a ginger cat, and we got her under the mistaken impression she was a fierce tom cat who would protect our female cat, Sparky (we were never that imaginative with our names - I don't think Matilda or Jasper would tolerate such a name!). And I can't mention Sparky without thinking of Sam and Pudy II (yes, there was a Pudy I). Sam in particular felt like "my" cat, which is why his death on my 15th (or maybe it was my 17th) birthday hit me hard at the time. There are times when I miss my upbringing, which is ironic, because if I confronted my teenage self with that insight he'd probably have punched me in the face.

With that in mind, it's probably best the past is somewhere we go to via memories and dreams instead of our own personal TARDIS - Gorse Bank has changed beyond all recognition since we left apparently, and I have no desire to see what it looks like now.

Anyway, after that spectacular piece of digression, we weren't planning to go up again until tomorrow, but the weather's so miserable we'll go up this afternoon and let her stay indoors over the weekend (with mum's permission, I hasten to add!) - it's got to be cosier than lying in the greenhouse!