At Kate’s I took my things up to my room (I’m the only person I’ve ever known to have their own room at their godmother’s house) and shut the door behind me.

I didn’t even say goodbye to Mum, but she clearly didn’t care, because she never

a)  knocked or

b)  tried to kick the door in.

Mum’s a doctor first and a mum second.

I’ve always known that.

And I stopped doing goodbyes a long time ago.

Thursday, January 4 #FurballCentral

I don’t actually mind staying at Kate’s house. The positives outweigh the negatives as follows:

Positive things about staying at Kate’s house:

• Unlike Mum, Kate no longer works for Médecins Internationale, and is therefore able to provide me with food, shelter, and emotional support.
• She treats me like a flatmate, not like a five-year-old.
• When she goes off on me, I struggle to be offended because she turns so Scottish that I basically can’t understand what she’s saying.

Negative things about staying at Kate’s:

• I have to take the bus to school.
• The designer cats.

How is it possible that I’ve known those cats forever, but I still can’t tell which is which? I can only ever tell them apart when they’re sitting right next to each other. Just like Kayleigh and Melody Sessions (school uniforms do nothing for identical twins).

The designer cats are going to be a bigger pain in the arse than usual, too, because they are currently

a)  in heat and

b)  under strict house arrest (and therefore going nuts) because Kate has scheduled a shagfest in High Barnet for them so they can have designer kittens at the same time.

And because the cats think my room is actually their room, they’re continuously scratching the door trying to get in now and whining because they can’t.

This place is like a mental asylum run by a bonkers Scottish woman.

Cat 1: Meow, meow, whine, whine, scratch, scratch.

Kate: Mimi, Mimi, leave Phoebe alone. Mimi, Mimi, good girl. Who’s a good girl?

Cat 2: Meow, hiss, scratch, whine.

Kate: Sassy, Sassy, come to Mama. Good girl, Sassy. Who’s a good girl?

Cat 1 (throws massive tantrum, knocking over everything that’s not glued to a surface):…

Kate: Fer goodness’ sake, ye total crazy fuckwit, do I need to put ye in yer carrier?

Me:…

Mum always jokes about Kate ending up as a crazy cat lady, but hello, newsflash, it’s already happened.

Who drives their cats all the way to High Barnet to get shagged?

There’s a designer boy cat up there (also Persian, obvs) who’s going to shag the designer cats all weekend, and then Kate is going to sell the designer kittens for like £500 each.

Imagine there are eight of them. That’s £4,000.

This place is going to be furball central.