"What the hell is that?" I ask in surprise, looking into the carry case and recoiling in horror. It’s just shy of 8am on the first Saturday of half term. The kids and Steve are still asleep and I had just been about to sit down to have a cup of coffee and a leisurely browse through Marie Claire magazine when the doorbell rang, heralding the unexpected arrival of my sister Rose.
"It's a cat," my sister says, smiling pleasantly.
"I can see that," I reply, equally pleasantly. "But what's it doing on my doorstep?"
"He's come to stay with you for a few days as I'm going away," she explains, speaking very slowly as if to a simpleton. I wrinkle my forehead and try to remember whether I had agreed to this arrangement, or whether, as I suspect, Rose chose to take advantage of my poor memory and accommodating nature and has just decided to spring an extra member of the household upon me.
“Can’t it go in a cattery, or something,” I ask doubtfully, looking at its long white fur, which while admittedly magnificent, is bound to shed copiously all over my carpets. We’d be finding cat hairs in our dinner for weeks to come, I’d bet.
“He, not it,” my sister corrects sternly, stepping over the threshold to gently place the cat carrier on the ground and open its little door much like a uniformed guard might open the door to the Prime Minister’s private jet.
“Poor mister Pussykatkins can’t go in a cattery, can he?” my sister asks the cat in the type of simpering tone people usually reserve for very small, very cute babies. “They don’t serve smoked salmon or his special cat milk for starters,” she says, turning to me. “Can you imagine?”
I raise my eyebrows, thinking that Mr Pussykatkins was clearly not only spoilt rotten but enjoyed a more sumptuous diet than I did.
“That’s an…unusual name," I venture, resolving that the feline would stay inside for the duration of his holiday at Hotel Hunt as I as refused to go outside and call his name. What would the bloody neighbours think? They already think I’m a bit scatty after that incident a couple of years ago when I drove off to work leaving poor Jessica on the driveway, staring after me forlornly. In my defense, I had stayed up half the night preparing a really important pitch and had forgotten I’d promised the nanny that I’d take her to school that morning as a special favour. Not that Mrs Perkins across the road - aka the net curtain twitcher - believed that explanation. I’d seen her on the phone shortly afterwards, no doubt phoning the local paper or social services to inform them of a scandalous tale of neglect.
“He's not actually called Mr Pussykatkins,” my sister says scornfully. “That’s just one of his pet names.”
“Oh thank goodness,” I laugh, “for a minute there….”
“He’s called Prince Pom Pom the third, but you can just call him Pom Pom for short,” she interrupts.
“I er, OK,” I nod brightly, watching as the royal rat-catcher slinks out of his carry case, the bell on his powder blue, diamond studded collar tinkling softly as he begins to explore his new surroundings.
“You’d better come into the kitchen so you can tell me how to look after him and stuff,” I say, thinking wistfully of my now lukewarm coffee and untouched Marie Claire.
“Don’t worry, I’ve already prepared some instructions,” Rose informs me, opening her Karen Millen handbag and fishing out a neatly bound folder containing several pages of double-spaced text. I peer at it tentatively, catching phrases such as ‘wild, Scottish salmon only, flaked into bite-size pieces,’ and ‘marked preference for Vittel mineral water but Evian will do at a push.’
“Now,” she says, puffing herself out importantly. “He likes his chicken free-range and organic, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem as I assume that’s what you feed the children anyway,” her eyebrow arches in a question.
“Yes of course, absolutely,” I agree, nodding vigorously. “Quite often, in fact. At least twice a week,” I add for good measure, thinking, does she know how much it costs to buy organic, free-range chicken for a family of five? The kids are lucky if we have it twice a term let alone twice a week.
“Good,” Rose continues, oblivious. “Now, he likes to be brushed regularly and you can let him outside, but only if you keep an eye on him. I don’t want him mixing with other cats or going on the road or anything like that,” she tells me crisply.
“OK, got that,” I nod again, starting to feel like that really annoying dog off the Churchill advert. “Well I guess that just about covers everything, and I’ll look in the folder if there is anything I am unsure of.” I’m suddenly anxious for Rose to be on her way lest I commit some faux pas in capacity as designated cat keeper for the week.
“Yes good idea,” says Rose, checking her watch and sliding her slender frame off the high stool at the breakfast bar, leaving her black coffee untouched. “I’ll just go and bring his things in from the car and then I have to shoot off, I’m afraid, my flight leaves in three hours."
"I’m flying first class, did I tell you?” she asks casually, as she comes back in the house, weighed down with bags of cat food and cat litter. No you bloody did not, I think grumpily. In fact, I think you neglected to tell me you were going on holiday at all. Go on, rub it in why don’t you, I continue addressing her in my head rather savagely. Look at you with your shiny suitcase on wheels and your first class ticket and look at us, who couldn’t even afford a staycation at Center Parcs. Of course, I don’t say any of this to her, I merely smile sweetly and suggest she sends me a postcard. But only if she has the time of course, I wouldn’t want her to put herself out.
Twenty minutes later and I’m surrounded by more cat paraphernalia than I know what to do with. This includes a five-foot high scratching post and a luxury cat bed that I wouldn’t mind having forty winks in myself if I could fit. I would go as far as saying Pom Pom travels with more luggage than Victoria Beckham on one of her many transatlantic flights. He’s certainly got the sullen expression right, at any rate.
Footsteps on the landing alert me to the fact my brood is now awake. In another five seconds, they’ll spot the cat and all hell will break loose.
Five, four, three…
“A cat!” exclaims Jessica right on cue, thundering down the stairs as a startled Pom Pom scuttles under the sofa.
“Tat!” echoes Tamsin in wonder, letting go of Jessica’s hand to peer under the sofa at the latest addition to the family.
“Yes a cat,” I said firmly. “He is just staying with us for a week and we have to be very careful with him, OK Tamsin? Be very gentle. Let him come to you. He’ll be a bit scared in a strange house and will need some time to get used to it.”
Pom Pom has now edged cautiously out from underneath the sofa and seems torn between making a run for it and sticking around for a stroke, and hopefully, a slice of smoked salmon.
He quickly decides to opt for the former as my youngest daughter makes a sudden lunge for his tail, streaking across the living room and into the kitchen where he has the smart idea to jump onto the dresser, thus putting him safely out of reach of her determined little arms.
“Where cat?” Tamsin asks in confusion.
“You scared him, silly,” Jessica tells her with a frown.
Tamsin looks from her sister to me, her bottom lip starting to wobble. “Come here sweetie,” I say quickly, soothingly, anxious to avoid another toddler meltdown. I hoist her up onto my hip as the tears come thick and fast, walking into the kitchen and pointing at Pom Pom, who has arranged himself in a suitably regal position.
“Look, there he is, he’s just having a rest, see? Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast?”
Despite my best efforts to distract her with a banana and a bowl of porridge, Tamsin continues to wail. The tears only subside, to be replaced with sniffles and hiccups, when Joshua offers to let her play with his new light sabre, anxious for calm to be restored.
I’m not saying I have a favourite child or anything. Of course not. I love all my children equally. But if I had to pick the one who causes me the least stress, who is the most easy going, it would have to be Joshua. He definitely takes after his father in this respect, where as the girls are more like me, more highly strung and just a little bit bossy. Especially Jessica. I’ve caught her on more than one occasion bossing her siblings around in a manner that would make an army sergeant look all sweetness and light. She’s like a tiny dictator. I’ll have to have a quick word with Steve on the sly and nip this behavior in the bud, I think.