This is a house of ginger.
So there we were, in the kitchen, waiting for food, circling like sharks, and there She is, chatting away. Pixie has been ill and She has been shoving those pill things down her. After the pill thing The Pixie gets a sort of small bottle of milk, and she lies in Her arms like a baby, paws round the bottle and laps her pink tongue on the cool, white, beautiful milk.
So, I'm watching and She scoops up a cat, and it wriggles and squirms and She think, oh, Pixie is much better, and she gets this pill and shoves it down the cats throat, and the cat looks cross. Very cross, but nothing compared to when She tips it over onto its back like a baby and tries to feed it milk from a bottle. All hell breaks loose. Bottle and cat go flying and words a cat should never utter turn the air as blue as Rosie's paws.
Now if that had been me I would have been quiet until I had got the milk, but Maurice is Maurice.
She looked down, and there was Pixie, and the rest of us. What are you doing? All eyes accusing. People often say "How can you tell them apart?"
"It's obvious when you know them and love them," She says.
"****************!!!!!" to that," says Maurice!
I would like to report that Pixie is seeming much better. She has to take her to see the vet again, just to be sure, but there is no green slime that so upsets a cat, few sneezes and no wheezes. Pixie says many thanks for all the good wishes. She is a polite cat. Much more polite than Maurice!