Last week, I went into Cambridge to meet my old friend Liz. We wandered around Cambridge, drinking coffee and catching up. We also went to the amazing Zoology Museum, which I have mentioned before, and looked at their collection of (mostly disgusting) animals in jars. I had a great time talking with Liz, who knows me from my university days and after, when I was living in Newcastle.

That night I was exhausted, however, and I tried to watch “Me, You, and Everyone We Know” by Miranda July. I hated it, and decided to return it in the post to Lovefilm. Sometimes, on these late-night walks out to the post office, I find a bunch of petrolheads hanging out in the car park, but this time my walk out was uneventful. Until I got home.

On the grass outside my house, Lucky the cat was teasing a mouse. Lucky is somewhat ironically named, as the first time I found out what his name was was just after he had been neutered. An attractive black tom, he is forever fighting the other cats in the area for dominance. That night he had caught a mouse, and mistook my interest in it for an offer to team up. I distracted him long enough for the mouse to crawl, slightly broken, off into the far grass. I considered picking it up and taking it home, but I thought that neither the mouse, the cat, nor me would be entirely happy with that idea.

The next day I drew up these events as postcards. I send a lot of postcards; I feel really stymied at the moment, and I don’t know what to do next. To be honest, I’m a bit lost, and it’s like these postcards remind people that I’m still around. Hello outside world! How’s it going out there?

So, the first chance it gets, the cat does a runner and I’m left shaking the box of cat kibbles in the back garden and feeling like an idiot. Ten minutes go by, then twenty, and then an hour, until I’m left thinking shit, the cat’s disappeared, the landlord’s going to come back and freak, and I’ll have to move out because it’ll be horribly awkward living with people who think I killed their cat. Well, it would, right?

I decided to go out and search for the cat. Turning round the front street, past the mosque, I go and check out the garages round the back. It’s dark, and I’ve got my grandfathers maglite in my hand. Oh, and the streets on fire.

That’s it, I think, I let the cat out and vandals obviously set it on fire. It’s not a great excuse, but at least it’s not my fault this time. Anyway, being a conscientious citizen I call the fire brigade, who come and put the fire out (everything else was just smoldering by this point, like the skip two doors down). I head back, and Masie the cat is finally ready to come in.