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Thursday, March 01, 2007


The kitten's six months old and stinking the place out, so the poor sod's having his knackers chopped off tomorrow. Ouch. Feel guilty, but what can you do? The would-be Casanova is trying to have it off with everything in sight, including my fave stripy socks. Not. Good.

So my husband made the appointment with the vet as I was getting the kids' tea last night: I'm a self-confessed eavesdropper and I'm sure he always lets me overhear such juicy titbits on purpose:

"The cat's name? It's Crampon-Fred. Yes, Crampon. As in the spikes you use to get up a mountain, you'll see why. No, actually: not the kids, my wife came up with it. Yes. She's a writer."

Ah: that explains it, then.


Optimistic_Reader said...

Excellent! Love it! Reminds a little of the Fawlty Towers "He's from Barcelona" joke.

Lucy said...

Lol, that's what I said OR. Great minds?

Optimistic_Reader said...