Catscrews

The cats have got us cornered. When we go to pour them out onto the porch as usual Monday night, it starts.

Locating them within the house, our stomping boots the length of their tails, we will unwittingly knock into motion Part A of the plan.

Behind a metre anthurium box, Crystal waits, neat-nosed and skinny. She'll watch as Chiffon, her torch eyes wide, is scooped like snow and humped downstairs, half-protesting, looking round only to give her sister the wink. "See you later."

At this point, Part B clicks into place. Crystal leaves her spot to dodge from room to room, till the stompers drop the niceties and bawl her name like foghorns. Then Presto! She materialises, all inch-thick torso and compact smile. And stay out! The house, two catweights lighter, sighs.

But upstairs, as I type, the white whiskered face of Part C appears at the glass balcony door. I draw the curtains with a yank, assume it's time to stop staring at pixels and make for the bathroom to brush my teeth.

No sooner ascrub, I am drawn to the window, where high pitched moans trim the snare drumroll of my brush. I tug the blind. It's jammed. Like a demon cloud, Chiffon hovers, pleading.

No, I say, and don't try that face on me.

The mewing persists, though her lips do not move, and I realise Crystal is approaching.

The first one of you to say Nevermore gets it, I warn.

And I don't let them in, but their faces pierce the curtain. I dream of the frozen bodies of cats, chipped away by morning birds. Unambitious ice-sculptures, rooted to the bathroom sill, they will not be chiselled off. Washing my hands will be impossible.

I honestly try to sleep.

Outside, the cats retreat to their secret garden HQ, settle by a fire tended by pixie minions, sup unicorn milk and wait.