white flag

I've surrendered without a struggle. I've yielded in the most pathetically sissy manner. I've taken off my suit of don'tshowmeanotherkitten armour, hand-beaten from sheets of burnished resolve, shed my cape of common sense, burned my book of good intentions, and turned belly up, legs waving feebly in the air, saying squeakily "Ooh, yes, I'll try being a foster mother to a 10-week-old feral kitten!"

All I know is that she was caught yesterday, by a rescuer living on an estate in Northumberland where the gamekeepers shoot cats, and will be delivered to PARRT tomorrow. I have stressed that she needs to get to me quickly, lest common sense creeps back into my foolish heart, but really it's because I find it hard to wait for her, and already I'm jumping up and down inside, excited and a bit anxious too about how the girls will take to a newcomer. Cats are not sentimental and soppy like us, nor are they kind and considerate, as a rule, and unlikely to reason with themselves that they were given the same chance to live a happy homely life, so why not welcome a small terrified black kitten into their lap of luxury? There may be language and attitude...

The dog will be fine; she always is. I will be beside myself.

There will certainly be photos.