Читать книгу ‘Stop in the name of pants!’ - Louise Rennison - Страница 65

I can hear the postman coming up the drive. Ah, the postie. It’s a lovely job being a postie; you see it in all ye olde films that ye olde parents watch. Mr Postie coming up the drive with a cheery whistle and a handful of exciting letters for the family. A “Good morning, ma’am” to the mistress of the house and then—

“I’ve got a bloody stick, you furry freak, and I’m not afraid to use it!!!”

Charming. Utterly, utterly charming.

I looked out of the window. Angus was sitting on the dustbin showing off to Naomi, his mad Burmese girlfriend and slag, by taunting the postie – hissing and doing pretend biffing, sticking his claws in and out. The postie had to get by the dustbin to get to the door and he was waving a big stick about in Angus’s direction. Angus loves a stick. The larger the better. He lay down and started purring so loudly I could hear it in my bedroom. I don’t know why he loves sticks so much, but he does. Almost as much as he loves cars.

He thinks cars are like giant stupid mice on wheels. That he can chase after.

He brought a stick home the other day that was so big, it took him half an hour to figure out how to get it through the cat flap. He did it, though, because he is top cat.