So, an extra post for regulars.
A small kitten has made its choice. It may be a foolhardy choice; it may be hasty and not as well researched as it could be. Kittens are not renowned for their background character checks.
Although it may have got on the phone the moment we left through the front door to engage a private detective.
The kitten who chose us was not tortoiseshell, as out old cat was, or indeed ginger, as were the majority of the small mewing souls taking their leisure in some leafy backwater of the Berkshire countryside.
It is black with the promise of many colours. A scientific truth demonstrated on four small clawed paws with the brightest eyes you can imagine. The eyes are currently shining blue sapphires in a sea of rumpled black energy.
We turned up at seven sharp, and by five past there was this kamikaze creature attempting to shred my camera bag.
I sat down, and the kitten started to scale me, using nature’s krampons. It was accustomed to me and I cannot for the life of me remember how we got acquainted.
And so now a fierce debate over the name has erupted. A healthy debate, anyway. Names that have flown through the air this evening include Tom, Dick Fosbury, Plato and Clive.
I am not certain what this small firebrand will be called. But one thing is certain: it was made for the Shrewsday Household.