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cats, but we got a bit distracted by some pretty scary stories about the mad things that cats can get up to. And there were
certainly more than a few tales about the kind of ‘presents’ that cats had brought their owners – like live frogs, for example.
    ‘Urgh – gross!’ Jazz cried. ‘Lucky you don’t have to
live
with Kaboodle. I magine a live frog in your actual house!’
    ‘Yeah, but Kaboodle doesn’t catch anything yet, remember?’ I told her.
    ‘Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Fairyland,’ said Jazz. ‘All cats catch stuff, Bertie. It’s in their blood. Kaboodle might be a baby to Pinkella, but he’s not a
newborn kitten, is he? He’s probably just really good at finishing off what he catches instead of leaving it for Pinkella to find.’
    ‘Do you mind?’ I protested. ‘I’d rather not talk about it. It’s disgusting. You’re in a weird mood today, Jazz.’ I thought about those round yellow eyes
and shook my head. There was no way that little cat would cause me any trouble at all, I was convinced of it.
    Pinkella left for Scotland early that Saturday. I was going to say ‘bright and early’, except it wasn’t bright because I was up before the sun had peeped over
the top of the houses in our street, and that’s when I saw her leave. I was so excited about the idea of finally being a pet-owner – OK, a pet-sitter – that I hadn’t been
able to sleep properly. I saw Pinkella glance up at my window and give me a cheery wave as she got into her taxi. She was wearing a coat that went right down to the ground and was made entirely of
pink fake fur (at least I hope it was fake – surely no real animal has bad enough taste to be that colour in real life?). She also had high-heeled dark pink shoes on. She certainly was a
loony, but something told me she might actually be quite a nice loony .
    I couldn’t wait to go round and feed Kaboodle. I’d been agonizing about how I was going to be able to do it without arousing Dad’s suspicion, as it was unlike me to be dressed
on a Saturday before ten o’clock, let alone out of the house. I was usually watching telly, and there had to be a world eve nt of universe-shattering proportions for me to agree to change out
of my Snoopy PJs before lunchtime.
    So the night before I had been about to ask him if I could go and help Jazz get Ty son dressed in the morning (bad excuse and totally unbelievable, I know, especially seeing as Ty is seven and
perfectly capable of getting dressed on his own – but I was desperate!). But then Dad saved me the trouble.
    ‘I’m really sorry, Bertie, but I’m going to have to ask Jazz’s mum if you can go round there early tomorrow. I know it’s the weekend, but I’ve got to go out
and do some research for this article I’m writing about a new multi-storey car park in the town. Apparently everyone’s very upset because the plan is to knock down the old theatre and
build the car park in its place.’
    How thrilling – I didn’t think. If ever Dad were to tell me he had high hopes of me following in his footsteps as a journalist, I would have to tell
him
that he was the
‘Weakest Link. Goodbye.’ I would rather eat a tonne of Brussels sprouts. Raw. With mustard.
    ‘Sounds riveting,’ I said, grinning cheekily. ‘I’m sooooo disappointed you don’t want me to come with you.’
    ‘No need to be sarky, young lady,’ said Dad. ‘So you don’t mind going to Jazz’s then?’ he asked, peering at me in a very concerned manner as if he’d
just discovered my homework was to recite all my tables backwards, instead of telling me to go to my best friend’s house on a Saturday morning.
    ‘Er, no, Dad. Funnily enough, I don’t!’
    So that is why at nine o’clock that Saturday I was not in my Snoopy PJs, but was fully dressed in my best dark denim skinnies with my favourite stripy top on, and a pink band in my hair,
which I’d put on specially for the occasion so Kaboodle would feel at home with me.