"Please stop writing about mice." Several times. Women, it used to be claimed had a particular aversion to them, a strange inherited thing. Anyway. So a letter from Tom Nisbet was held out for a week or more. But a letter from Tom Nisbet is not really about mice, it's about the use of words, and don't say puns. Here it is in its entirety. "Dear Y, your recent notes about mice prompt the anecdote concerning the old alley cat who, having exhausted his nine lives, eventually succumbed and went to Heaven where the Lord made him welcome and granted his wish for a large basket at a warm fireside. A Peeping Tom, he had often looked through windows at pampered pussies enjoying such luxuries, and thought `that's paradise'. Later a wealthy banker bought a big house on Ailesbury Road, empty for ages and infested with mice. Pest controllers routed the rodents and they likewise went above and asked All Highest if they could have roller skates as their paws were tender from running about on bare boards and cold tiles. No problem. They were thus equipped and old Tom was delighted, praised the Lord for providing meals on wheels. (Don't blame me. I heard that from a fellow at High Pawk Corner.) Ever yours, Tom Nisbet. Par le chemin, there is (or was) a tree at the bridge in Stephen's Green labelled `The Toothache Tree' - any idea why?"
Still on Tom Nisbet's theme of cats, alley or otherwise, has anyone else the problem (some would say the pleasure) of harbouring, outdoors in the garden or generally in the area, cats which seem to belong to no one but which are familiar and spend much of their time round your house and garden. One luxuriously befurred creature spends a good part of the day curled up on the doorstep of a suburban garden - and if not there, she may be resting, tucked up somewhere under the bonnet of the family car. You make loud noises before starting the engine, but she has already hopped out. Her main demand is for notice and affection. She rubs against your legs, purrs faintly, and can't have too much of being told "good puss, good puss" and being gently stroked. Her mother comes too. (Both were trapped and spayed years ago.) A few raiders on the supper put out for them seem to have gone away. They can't come into the house because of the dog. They don't chase the birds in the back garden.
One question is: who gives them their breakfast? They are not seen at that time. But from their plumpness and the gloss on their coats, they do all right. End of mice and cat frivolity. Y