Spoon on the floor

I am in the decidedly odd position of making sure there is no food in the kitchen. Hannah, with her impossibly blue eyes, has emerged as more than a little aggressive when it comes to her next meal. She shares her catches (three birds in one day is gluttony, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let her eat the Easter rat), but she seems to think that means she can help herself to ours. A towel draped over thawing meat is not enough; a lid perched on a pot can be knocked off. Water glasses are pushed off tabletops with alarming regularity. And you’d better not leave your cornflakes unattended for even a minute.

And so it was that this morning I found a lone plastic lid on the table after last night’s spaghetti, no cheese container in sight. Living with men, I decided that they must have finished it and thrown out the container but not the lid (it’s the same gene that causes them to place an empty milk carton back in the fridge). I sighed and chucked the lid.

Then I went around to the living room and looked back: there on the floor was the empty container and its spoon. Sprinkled about this general area was the fine crumble of a tangy aged sheep milk Romano. Sherlock Holmes was not needed to solve the mystery.

So, to the men in my life, I owe you an apology. For my cat, obviously of exquisite taste, we need to have a little chat. Once you finish your catnap, of course.