Va-cat-ion

We were extremely lucky that Helen, our Kiwi friend, offered to housesit and look after Monty Cat whilst we were away for our wedding and honeymoon. Monty Cat got to stay in his own property, and we didn’t have to worry about the house whilst we were away. All was going swimmingly.

We had Helen over for dinner to show her the house a month or so prior to flying out. We gave her the tour. We showed her the conservatory. All was good.

One week before we flew out, someone was murdered in our street. The details were hazy, and the police were digging the drains up outside our house but someone was in custody, so we didn’t really worry about it too much.

“Best not mention it to Helen though,” I said to TheBloke (TM). “She comes from leafy South West London, and we don’t want to worry her needlessly about our wild East London streets.”

So we kept it hush-hush. It made a few local papers but nothing national. Nothing to worry about. All was fine.

On Saturday, at the duly appointed time, Helen arrived in the taxi. Whenever we go on holiday, Transport for London make it a special priority to close the Central Line, thus meaning we spend a good two hours and a chunk of holiday budget working out how to get to the airport.

Helen got out of the taxi and wheeled her large suitcase up our drive.

“The taxi driver has just asked me if I knew anything about your neighbour who was murdered,” she said.

Big mouthed taxi driver.

“Oh well,” said TheBloke (TM) to Helen. “We’re away for the next three weeks... so at least there won’t be any rapes,” he leered.
So if anyone’s passing our street, could you please pop in and check that Helen hasn’t yet fled the scene an d that Monty Cat isn’t wasting away? (To be fair, he’s got a fair amount of storage in his flabby folds of fur.)