Curled up on a drift of wind blown leaves in the bandstand under a bench.
Tomorrow I would decide to either pad north across the Southdown or south to the shingle shore.
I was hungry, cold and alone...
But not for long, urgent voices woke me from my dream: a feast of sardines and fresh milk (served room temperature) poured slowly into a silver saucer.
A pair of green shoes with scuffed dumpy heels swung to and fro next to a pair of sturdily plonked five nines shod in stain splattered Nikes. She nicked his chips. He stole hers in retaliation. I stayed low, hunched, my ginger body camouflaged amongst the dry red leaves.
Lager cans hissed open. Al fresco dining; fish and chips, in newspaper packages.
As she plucked again at his portions, he grabbed her parcel and tossed it to the floor.
"Oi!"
The contents scattered across the staging and lay temptingly just a metre or so from my nose. But I did not move. He dropped his bundle; yesterday's news spilling chips and half eaten sausage. He lunged at her.
"Oi, you!"
"Pinch my chips would you?"
One green shoe fell amongst the fried potatoes and red sauce. I backed away slowly, my body pressed tightly to the low oak risers and I could retreat no further. The other green shoe rushed to join its fallen pair. Just one Nike rested on the bandstands wooden floors. A jacket joined the shoes; black leather with little gold flower detailing around the collar and cuffs. Zips were unzipped.
"No, Dave."
Dave ignored her protests. Dave was obviously deaf. Dave had a spotty bum and Dave sought a cure for his acned backside by exposing it to the sea salt blasted winds of a November night. Dave was vigorous in his quest for the cure of spotty backside syndrome and waved the pustuled covered twin orbs many times.
"Ooo,"
"Oh Dave!"
"Trace."
"Dave."
"Oh Tracey."
"Dave? Dave! Ere Dave! Dave! Theres a big ugly mangy moggy."
"OooooooH ooh ooh ooh ooh."
"Dave, 'es got hold of your sausage, Dave?"
And Dave exploded into red-faced rage. With one hand grabbing at his jeans the other yielding one green shoe, aiming and launching he hurled. I had the sausage in my jaws and with one leap missed the strike of the missiled green shoe, and up and overed the little balustrade wall in a single bound. Supercat.
"'Ere Dave, that the first time a ginger pussy's run off wiv yer sausage?"
"Ha ha."
"Oi."
"Right old banger."
Shriek.
The sound, the shrieks, the guffaws, the groans, and the grunts became fainter as I hightailed it far from that place; the sausage sticking out of my mouth like a cigar stub. I reached Hilsea Lido before I stopped running; the pool emptied of water at this time of year. I snuck in under the rusty chain link fence and by the toddler paddling area gnawed breathless at the ketchuped torpedo. I did not notice the pairs of eyes, the gathering curious pairs of eyes and the single green eye gathering around watching from the shadows. The slitted pupils. Lots and lots of blinking pale green and yellow eyes.
But I became aware of the pair of black paws, the pair of huge black paws on the end of which exceedingly sharp white claws unsheathed themselves from velvet toe purposefully. One claw following another claw.
"What cha got there then, mate?"...
and it fits my photograph -my signed photographed of Richard Madeley and Moi -perfectly. I found it in the loft; Susan (female human of the household) who was stowing the Christmas decorations (its April! honestly if she'd left it for another couple months the debate would have been whether it was worth the clamber up the step ladder to the attic as the Christmas count would have begun.)
