Precautions taken for the prevention of tiger attack

The day the tiger escaped we were due to go to the theatre, a sold out production featuring some Hollywood star making her West-end debut. Dave had secured me a couple of front row seats and promise of a chance to meet her after the show, take some photos and maybe cadge an autograph.

But Sally didn't want to go. She stood in front of the door, arms folded, shaking her head. "We're not going out, not while there's a tiger on the loose."

Sally gets these ideas in her head.

"Don't be stupid," I said. "There's seven million people in this city, a thirteen mile maze of streets, what are the chances of the tiger deciding to attack us? We're only walking 20 meters to the car and another 20 metres from the car park to the theatre, we've more chance of winning the lottery three weeks running than we have of being attacked by a tiger.

"I know, but I've had a premonition. If we go outside this house we'll be eaten by the tiger."

A premonition? Well, if it's pre-ordained there's nothing we can do. Even if we stay in all night the tiger will pick the lock and sneak up on as we're sleeping, just to make sure that your premonition comes true.

"Don't be silly, it's only if we go outside it'll happen. Tiger's don't pick locks, that's why we should stay in tonight."

"But we're miles from the zoo, the tiger would never reach this far out, it only escaped a few hours ago. Even if it had escaped just so it could get us, it would never find its way through this estate without a map. Nobody ever manages to find the house without sat nav."

As ever, when faced with a reasoned argument she could never win, Sally stomped off in tears. It's as if my marriage is padded out by stock footage of stomping-off woman.

I gave her a few minutes to rage and storm to herself, before joining her. The routine is well rehearsed by now. I poured her a glass of wine and found her on the sofa, slumped into herself with tears. I sat softly beside her, presented the wine as a peace offering and slipped my arm around her, so that she could reposition herself and cry onto me.

After ten minutes or so of crying she was ready to talk.

"They're real. My premonitions are real," her voice trembled between words. "They come true. I've got this to show for it."

So saying, she rolled up her skirt to show me her dog bite, the 19 year old scar from her childhood, a long twisted smile of skin above her knee and up towards her thigh.

I knew all about the dog-bite, she told me about it the first time I saw her bare leg. Well, about 45 minutes after I first saw her bare leg, during our post-coital getting-to-know each other chat. She'd told me about the pool of blood she'd left on the road that was, so she said, deep enough to swim in, and the hospital using up all of it's supplies of blood to keep her alive.

"I never told you before," she continued, "but I knew when I left the house that day I was going to get bitten. I'd had a premonition the night before. I screamed at my mother, begged her not to send me out, but she forced me out of the house, said I had to go to school."

I said nothing. Sally's stories have a habit of being re-edited many years' later, to fit whatever argument she's making at the time.

"I knew I was going to get attacked by a dog," she continued, "but there was nothing I could do. I stumbled along the street in anticipatory tears, straight into my fate. I can still feel it's horrible, hot, slobbering breath as it bit me."

She cried into my shoulder. My finger stroked it's way up and down the scar, the tooth-track of a long dead dog, followed the mark gently up and down, then up again towards her thigh. Slowly the mood changed, her tear-grip turned subtly into a love-lock, her right hand started to claw the hair on my chest and my finger started to stray further from the scar. All thoughts of tiger attack suddenly vanished and we started to ravish and ravage each other, as we had when we first met, a rummage and romp on the sofa, no time even to go upstairs.

And afterwards, straight to bed, for seconds. "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing twice."

"This is better than being eaten by a tiger," she panted, as we lay in recovery position, "don't you think?"

"Ah, so the whole thing was a ruse to keep me in the house was it?"

She giggled at this suggestion. "Oh yes, I got no pleasure from it. Once that tiger's caught we'll have no more of that distraction."

"Well I'd better make the most of it while I can," I said and we wrestled each other into round three. Yes, you heard me correctly, a third time, at my age an' all, there's a beast on the loose tonight all right.

So I thought that was that. A blissful night's sleep with my life's true love, tears and tigers forgotten.

But the next morning she's stood at the front door, arms folded, blocking my way out the house.

"Honey, I have to go to work."

"There's a tiger on the loose. I had a premonition, remember?"

"How could I forget?" I smiled cheekily, hoping to revive sweet memories, but all I got back was a scowl.

"I wasn't joking, there's a tiger out there."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, not this again." All the love of last night gone in a few words. Why don't I ever proof-read my thoughts before I open my mouth?

I could have lifted her out of the way, physically pushed her, but it would have been a fight, and I didn't want a fight. That's how my dad lost my mum, getting physical.

"Fuck it, I'll work from home this morning. Can you make me a fuckin' coffee at least." I stomped off to the kitchen, but she caught me up and gave me a thank-you kiss, obediently making the coffee and an accompanying pancake, the dutiful wife. Great sex, great coffee and the best pancakes I've ever tasted, I shouldn't really complain.

The radio was playing as I checked my email and drank a cup of finest Columbian fair-trade, the smell of pancake making my nose twitch with anticipation. "And finally," the newsreader announced, "no more panic on the streets of London, as Houdini the escaped tiger was caught by police in the early hours of this morning."

"Oh great, I'm late for work because of your stupid premonition. Yeah, sure, the tiger's outside, waiting to eat me, it just doesn't know they caught it hours ago. Why did they have to call the fucking tiger Houdini anyway, that's just asking for trouble."

I waited until I'd finished my pancakes before storming out the door; I've learnt not to let my temper get in the way of a good pancake.

On my way to the car I paused, catching a whiff of an odour I recognised from my illicit hunting trip to India a few years ago. There, behind the garage, was a steaming great pile of tiger poo.