By the time you read this I shall no longer be living alone. I will not have taken in lodgers or adopted a toddler, or even opened a bed and breakfast – but there will be a cat.
I haven’t met him yet: he’s coming in a few days’ time. He is a black short-furred male called Marcus – a name which causes some difficulty, as my favourite cousin is called Marcus Gray; I suppose I’d better call the cat Marcus Black.
There’s a downside to this, of course. Someone will have to feed him any time I’m away. My son charmingly said that the house would probably start smelling bad again if I don’t try abolishing the cat tray and train the animal to use the cat-flap – which will hardly please the woman who controls the garden. But there will now be someone to come home to; the house will be, as my husband used to say, “centrally catted”.
I haven’t yet met Marcus, but those who know him say he is fine, though I hope he doesn’t decide that he doesn’t like me much – or even at all, since whatever he feels he’ll be stuck with me.
This isn’t much of a worry for me – after all, he’s only a cat, so he’s the helpless one; but what must it be like to be a future bride in a culture where they produce a husband for you, and then you just have to put up with him?
What do you think? Have your say below
