Cat on a Cold Tin Roof

I hate shopping: which is why when Christmas rears it's Bethlehem head I head for the hills, or thereabouts. Ostensibly this is a major shopping trip, the multifarious wishes of various relatives and potential wives to be to be catered for in a sensitive and caring fashion over a 5 day period.

Of course this is not the case; it's merely an opportunity to idle in the public house for slightly longer than is strictly healthy . I've always found that gifting requires long contemplation; especially when a beer pump and a cheery barmaid are on tap.

Snow is a bonus. Why should I be expected to trudge through the white stuff in my immaculate suede Hush Puppies? "When the cars are wearing white hats it is time to repair to the Public House". That's what my Great Uncle Cecil said, and he wasn't far wrong.

Unfortunately I hit the 4th day today and had to trudge through the slush. Four trips to the car and back it took me, fortified only by a sausage and egg Macmuffin and several roll ups.

I was clean bushed by lunchtime and had to repair to the public house for several large sherries.

Tonight, surrounded by carrier bags full of stuff that nobody wants, I happened to look out of the hotel room window. A cat had been prancing about dotting it's prints about the chimney pots and producing an accurate outline of the Indian Sub Continent.

This got me thinking.

Why didn't I bring my air rifle? I'd have nailed the varmint in an instant.

I'm not as bad as my Great Uncle George. When he stayed in hotels he always kept a rope in his suitcase so he could abseil in the event of a fire