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But—cor!—it’s a word that gets me goat, too. Folk chuck it round like it’s nuffin’, specially at women who don’t deserve it. Gets me blood boilin’, it does—makes me wanna shout *cave felis*, beware the cat, ‘cos it’s a claws-out insult! Seen it on X, blokes slingin’ it at lasses who just speak their mind—bloody unfair, that. Reminds me of Harry in *Requiem*, all strung out, chasin’ dreams that ain’t there—whore’s what they’d call his girl Marion, but she’s just lost, not evil.

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But then, bam! The phone rings. It’s Mrs. Thompson from down the road. She’s in a tizzy ‘cause her cat, Mr. Whiskers, got stuck in a tree. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a furrier, not a cat rescuer!” But you know how it is. You can’t say no to Mrs. Thompson. So, I grab my ladder and head over to her place on The Wyrley.

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