Moggy misery

"It's me, dad," my daughter said.

"Before you go on," I said, "Are you going to tell me something that will ruin my day off?"

I have every other Tuesday off from work. It's not the best day off in the week because Tuesday is really a nothing day.

I mean Monday would be great to have off because then you've got a long weekend. A Wednesday off would be nice, too, because it breaks up the working week. And of course Friday is an excellent day off because you've got another long weekend in prospect.

Thursday, on the other hand, is neither here nor there. But Tuesday? What sort of a day off is that?

Still, one has to be grateful for whatever one receives in this life filled with constant struggle, torment, anguish and dread. At least I'm not depressed. "But you're not a happy little chappy, are you?" my wife observed.

"Au contraire," I said. "You can always have a laugh with me."

"Since when?" my wife asked. "There's more fun in a mortuary. Let's face it, nobody laughs with you - they laugh AT you!"

"Moji Badmos," I said.

"Huh?"

"Moji Badmos," I repeated.

"You're not by any chance swearing at me in Lithuanian?" my wife asked.

"No. Moji Badmos was a sweet Nigerian girl who was in my class at night school 30 years ago. She laughed out loud whenever I spoke."

"Maybe she couldn't understand your thick Mancunian accent and laughed out of politeness," my wife said.

"You're right," I said. "She couldn't speak a word of English."

"Then what's your point?" my wife asked.

"I really don't know," I admitted. "But my friend Moji picked up the basics of shorthand and typing a lot sooner than I did. I was really hopeless in those days."

"But I still don't get your point," my wife said, puzzled.

"Neither do I," I shrugged. "Shall we talk about something else now?"

And then the phone rang.

"My cat's gone missing," my daughter said. "Oh," I said because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Would you mind driving down to my neighbourhood, dad, and help me look for Spud in the 1,343 gardens he might be hiding in?"

"But it's my day off," I pointed out.

"What sort of a day off is a Tuesday?" my daughter said. "If you ask me, Tuesday is a lousy day off. Now if you had a Monday off it would mean a long weekend, and a Wednesday's okay, too, because it breaks up the working week..."

"I know, I know," I interrupted. "I've already been into all that."

"So are you coming round, dad?"

"I'll be there in an hour," I sighed. "After I've partaken of my cornflakes and medication."

Apart from Spud being a stupid name for a cat, my daughter's pet is the craziest moggy I've ever met. Not that I've known that many.

My mother wasn't that fussed about cats. She was absolutely dotty on dogs, though. I grew up in the shadow of a succession of family pooches and I must confess I sometimes felt that mother doted more on her mutts than on me.

"Did mother really want human children?" I asked my dad one day during one of our rare father-son conversations.

My father thought about this for a while. "Don't bother me now, son," he said eventually. "I've got to take the dog out for a walk."

So I collared my mother in the kitchen. "Was my existence planned?" I asked. "Or was I the accidental result of a perfunctory inter-twining?"

Mother whirled on me. "Who told you about the birds and the bees?" she demanded. "You're much too young to have your head filled with such disturbing thoughts."

"But I'm 22, mother."

"Your physical age has nothing to do with it," she insisted. "Your mind is too delicate to take such notions on board. Now be a good boy and creamstone the back doorstep..."

So I ate my breakfast and drove round to my daughter's home.

"When did you last see your cat?" I asked.

"Last night, dad."

"Hmm," I said. "That would be Monday the 18th if I'm not mistaken."

My daughter stared at me. "Why are you talking like an investigating policeman, dad?"

"I really don't know," I sighed. "I guess I've watched too many cops and robbers films over the years."

"Please grow up, dad. This is real life and I'm missing a moggy."

"You're right," I agreed, emptying a tin of talcum powder over the cat flap and dusting for fingerprints.

Anyway, we found Spud minutes later. The hyperactive lunatic feline had been terrorising the woman next door and we were alerted by her screams.

"At least my husband will be home tomorrow to comfort me," the neighbour sobbed. "Wednesday is his day off."

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.