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Sunday 27 May 2012

Notebook

"You don't mind, Henley," I said, crunching some pretzels and refusing the glass of Coke I hadn't asked for, "if I speak my mind."

The cat sat on an armchair, legs crossed, all laundry and hairdresser and dry-cleaner's, looking like a superior footman on his day off, but still horribly polite. “Not a bit,” he said. “That is, if Suzette doesn’t mind.”

“We may as well have it,” Suzette said, flopping on to some cushions and opening up a 2,000-page Yank mag.

“In the first place,” I said, beginning with the least obvious weapon, “Suzette is working-class, like me.”

“And me,” said Henley.

“Eh?”

“My father, who’s still living, was a butler,” the cat said.

“A butler,” I told him, is not working-class. No disrespect to your old Dad, but he’s a flunkey.”

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