Miaow! Miaow! Miaow!
Where was the plaintive sound coming from? The bushes? Long grass? A rooftop? A culvert? It was hard to be positive. Or should that be pawsitive?
Such was the conundrum facing me when I met a damsel in some distress last Tuesday outside the KFC drive-thru in Barrhead.
At first I thought her car had mechanical issues. She was looking around it and underneath it. Perhaps something was leaking.
“I can hear this cat miaowing,” she said.
Yes, she was right. Miaow, miaow, miaow – the feeble cry kept rending the air and our fragile hearts.
Surely it couldn’t be coming from her car. We checked the engine, then took turns in rolling under the vehicle, yet I could see nothing in the dark, mysterious underbelly, although the sound was awfully close now.
While I began looking elsewhere, the lady slid beneath the front of her car like a grease monkey and eventually emerged clutching a tabby kitten, not much bigger than a hamster, or so it seemed. It was none the worse for wear, just a bit discombobulated and rather nervy as felines so often are.
You’ve got to be kitten me, I thought, wisely keeping the pun to myself. What a place to hide, little friend. Suppose you had fallen on the highway or got snared in the fan belt.
“I think I’ll take it home,” the lady said.
Adoption plans, however, were immediately abandoned when the KFC counter girl informed us that a man had lost a cat in the area, so she would ring him with the good news and put our friend in a box.
And so endeth my wee kitty tale.
Many might dismiss it as inconsequential, but driving away I recalled a poem which cautions us to be very mindful of the vulnerable little creatures which share our planet. It also warns of human frailty.
We should be careful of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
Everyone is talking about the fantastic food at the Games. And so am I.
I’m referring to all the free packed lunches that came my way.
In fact, I think I’m worthy of a gold medal for the number I acquired/was offered/purloined at the cycling event.
Sport and taste buds have always been inseparable in my life.
I remember watching Wimbledon on TV as a kid. The tennis was okay, but my eyes kept wandering to the drinks cooler near the players’ benches. It was chock-full of Coca-Cola.
If I were a tennis pro, I thought, I would raid the fridge and take all the cokes home with me. Why doesn’t Borg knock them all into his sports bag?
Don’t know about you, but I’m suffering from a touch of PTGS at the moment, so much so that I might require counselling.
PTGS? Post-Traumatic Games Syndrome, of course. It’s weird, but I have this strange mixture of relief that it is all over – and I can return to my lazy ways – and wanting more. The party was over so quickly that Barrhead now feels a little empty.
So what were my favourite Games moments? Besides the obvious sporting heroics, here are two random high points.
The free entertainment at the cycling courtesy of Karen Taylor and the Women on Wheels members. They were always so happy, upbeat and smiling. And the sight of Karen dancing in the street to keep warm was terrific – far rather see her than Mick Jagger and David Bowie.
Secondly, John Short’s comment at the closing ceremonies. The veteran journalist and former sports talk show host referred to Thursday’s sunshine and Sunday’s rain.
“I am convinced that the Father has decided it was great that we were coming and it is sad we are departing,” he said.
