Random Scribblings in the Margin

Damn it, Dick King-Smith's dead.

When I was a kid, I liked books and I liked animals. I was painfully shy, so I didn't like people. Dick King-Smith wrote a huge number of kids' books about animals. You see how he might've been a massive part of my childhood.

I read The Sheep-Pig and Saddlebottom and The Hodgeheg and King Max the Last and Pets for Keeps and Sophie's Tom and Martin's Mice. All or most were published by Young Puffin, I think.

I mean, he was 88. But damn it.

The cat's giving me huge mournful eyes because I won't let her go out, what with bonfire night and Divali. Fireworks and pets are a bad combination at the best of times, and I live in an area where there's been a few RSPCA prosecutions.

Thing is, my parents' cats can go out during the day, because they always come running when you call them in. But Millie doesn't respond to being called at all, and she has a past history of disappearing for days (and on one memorable occasion, months) on end. Sorry, kitty. You're gonna have to be a housecat for a couple of weeks.