Tinkle

Tinkle

In the south, it has been a wet winter, windy, cold and dark. Not the
weather to go out of the house, unless you have to. This is why our two
young cats stay indoors and catch up on their sleep. They play their
running and wrestling games inside the house which, as they can be
boisterous, infuriate those of us who want to watch favourite TV
programmes in peace.

So it was a great relief for us to get to bed early. I had just escaped
from Scotland by train with 4 hours to spare - the snowdrifts in the
north had caused the railway stations close early. I was feeling that
glow of achievement that rarely comes to those who, unfortunately, have
no mountains to climb or polar continents to conquer. While I had been
away from home, our two adolescent cats had been giving my wife a hard
time, like any other youngsters when the weather is bad. Thankfully,
after half an hour last night when I got home, they tired of playing
'King of the Castle' on the kitchen table, so all was calm.

We slept well. In fact we overslept, but as we were on holiday, there
was no great urgency about getting up.

Eventually I rose, went to the window and drew back the thick curtains,
leaning over our newly French polished dressing table to do so. The
morning light confirmed, at the same time as my hand on the tabletop,
that something was wrong. The embroidered runner my wife has lovingly
placed on the table to protect its expensive high gloss was all
rumpled. What is more, it was a bit damp, although it wasn't soaking
wet. Then there were the dried flowers and leaves scattered all over
the cloth, table and floor, mixing in with the elegant bottles of talc,
moisturiser and eau-de-toilette. Something was sticking to my bare foot
- it was a dried flower. The daylight showed that the delicate
embroidered linen had purple and dark brown stains everywhere.

However, the pot-pourri bowl seemed intact and more or less in its
usual place. I am thankful it hasn't had an accident. It would be
irreplaceable, as it is a pot that was designed and made by our
daughter when she was studying ceramics. Featherlight and fragile, it
has a marvellous translucent green glaze. As it is also thin, this
caused problems with the firing and there is a small crack in its base.
We are proud of it. The defect, however, doesn't make it impossible to
use as a dry flower/pot-pourri bowl and so both our visitors and
ourselves are able to admire it for itself.

However, this little flaw was the one weak link in the series of
events, which has caused it to take early retirement and go to a place
of safety.

Why? Hercule Poirot fans among you will realise that you now have all
the clues to solve the mystery.

I suppose I didn't do too badly for someone who was not properly awake.
After muttering a few rude words about the time of day and the dried
flower stuck to my foot, I took all the bottles off the dressing table
and then the pot-pourri bowl in both hands. Then I bundled up the
runner with all the scatter red and limp petals and took them all down
to the kitchen. The pot-pourri went in the refuse bin and the runner
into the sink, with plenty of water for a good soak.

I prayed for the strong colours of the stains to come out. The runner
was another 'one off', which we picked it up in our local antiques
market. A trip there to replace it will provide too many tempting
'bargains', which the household banker wants to avoid just after
Christmas.

My wife, who is the Agatha Christie devotee of the family, has now
pieced together the whole story. She thinks she heard this tinkling
sound earlier, but couldn't make out what it was. Shortly afterwards we
were woken by the sound of our youngest cat, Davie, (recognisable in
the dark because he hurries everywhere and shouts a lot) rushing down
the stairs and charging through the cat flap.

It seems Davie was 'caught short' and tried to mimic our older cat. We
think Bramble sometimes uses the bath in the same way, but we can't
prove this - the evidence has always disappeared down the plughole
before we get to him. The ceramic bowl was shiny, just like the bath
but much smaller, and the fragrant pot-pourri reminded you of the last
of the autumn leaves on the flowerbeds, ideal for scraping over any
evidence.

Unfortunately, nobody had told Davie about the crack that we hide under
the aromatic flower heads and spicy leaves. We can't blame him - he
thought he was being clever and knows we are keen to encourage
initiative. The mirror finish of the tabletop now needs major work from
a French polisher, but how was he to know what would happen?

Now, should I explain all this to the insurance people? Perhaps not. If
it doesn't cost too much to put right, then I won't need to put in a
claim or tell them. After all, the cloth runner has come out of the
wash 'as new', the French polisher has had a good laugh and Davie would
be embarrassed...

907 words The End