So at 8.30 this morning I found myself packing cats into archive boxes and sticky taping the lids shut. Miss Goody Two Shoes kindly came over to offer her cat relocation services and we took the beasties to a friend's place. The apartment was looking pretty good but I was so nervous I couldn't sit still.
Eventually the real estate agent came around. Now this man is famous for being very grumpy, gruff and rude. But he takes one look at me and says 'You look like Katharine Hepburn'. 'Why I love Katharine Hepburn', says I. And we proceed to spend the next 20 minutes talking about Joan Crawford, Betty Grable's legs, big bands and the dreadful state of modern music. Then the bastard asks me how my cat is. Bugger. Apparently the matter is now at rest and it's ok for me to have a cat (one cat, so the poor deluded devil thinks). I'm not supposed to tell the neighbours in case they want cats (though they're already pretty well supplied in that direction).
So yippee yi yay!!! Property inspection over. He loves us as tenants. He loves the apartment. He loves my (lone) cat. Now I can relax and wait for Kim to liberate the cats.
Like a good librarian, I store my cats in neatly labelled archive boxes, displayed here with Miss Goody Two Shoes.
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