Watch my lips!! No,-I-did-not-enjoy-my-weekend-away-in-that-so-called-holiday-camp-for-cats. Why would I? A prison camp for cats is more like it.
So, there are my two, swanning off to the wide open skies and endless vistas of the Lake District; and there’s me, stuck in a four-foot cage with barely enough room to swing a – er, rabbit, and a bed that’s been slept in by god knows how many mangey, flea-ridden, feline drop-outs, before me.
Okay, so it came with great views of the hole in the ground where Facit Mill used to be and the speed camera guarding the top end of what is probably the longest Market Street in the world. But come on! These are hardly the Grand Canyon and Sydney Opera House, are they?
‘You’ll have your very own exercise yard,’ they told me. Yeah, right! Had I been born a woodlouse it would have been great. I could have hiked to the far end of the yard for a picnic, and not got back until tea-time. But for a feline, marching up and down the same few feet of hard ground, like some Grenadier Guard at Buckingham palace, is not my idea of exercise. Nor does it compare, in the slightest, with a leisurely stroll around Grasmere and Ambleside, followed by a game of pitch and putt on the grassy shore of Derwentwater (all of which some people were apparently enjoying whilst I was stuck in there).
Just wait until it is my turn to book the accommodation. They’ll get an en-suite cell in Strangeways with a view of Boddington’s old brewery, like it or lump it.
Speak soon, kittens.
Cannot fault the food in there, though. Just not enough of it. But then there never is, is there? All this breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, nonsense. Who needs a break from eating?