Cass, my four-year-old tortoiseshell, is now safely ensconsed in her new home, Catterie Towers, overlooking the vale of Axholme halfways between Caistor and Brigg. I left her with a heavy heart, not because her palatial kat bedroom is loftier than ours, but because I am entrusting her to what looks like a couple of new rave cat obsessives. David, the bloke, was wearing trouseurs last seen on the Newbury bypass protestors of the early 90s. His wife looked like a cross between a Katebush and a Klaxon. I'm not expecting High Street fashion from my cat guardians, but happy-clappy children entertainer chic with buckets wasn't on the agenda either. They took a look at Cass, and said: "Who's this little person, then?". 'She's a Cah-Ah-Ahht,' I was thinking. Quite what kind of beast I return to is anyone's guess.
Also: Have paid £28 for 20 early bird swims at Beverley Road baths. Most early bird swimmers are nutters. One today looked like Martin Samuel, surely the fattest football reporter on the NOTW. After swim, he joined me in the showers and delivered a note-perfect rendition of Bloc Party's The Prayer. Not the natural tune of a 20-stone beardo in Hull, but different.