The Kilkenny Cat Book 1:

By William Forde

This author's works have been praised by numerous celebrities, the most notable being Nelson Mandella who described two of his African stories as 'Wonderful', the late Princess Diana who used to read two of his books to the Princes William and Harry when they were aged 9 and 7 years, and a former Chief Inspector of Schools for The Office for Standards in Education, Children's Services and Skills (OFSTED), who described the author's writing to the press as being of 'High quality literature.'
The Kilkenny Cat has been written as a trilogy. Book One deals with the theme of ‘truth’, Book Two with ‘justice’, and Book Three on the theme of ’freedom’.
All three books seek to show that truth, justice or freedom cannot exist in isolation, and that the only way one can experience any one of them is when one is able to experience all three.
Book One is set in the country of Ireland, the land of my birth, Book Two in Jamaica and Ireland, both countries I know well, with Book Three being predominantly set in Northern England; the place where I have lived for most of my life.
The trilogy is designed to show that every country on the face of the Earth exercises discrimination against some of its citizens. The nature of discrimination may subtly change and vary from one country and situation to another in both shape and form, but it will always be present in some degree for those of us who care to look.
Particular forms of discrimination looked at in this trilogy include the issues of colour, race, religion, age, culture, sexism, disability, homophobia, gypsies, asylum seekers, refugees and economic migrants.
These issues are looked at through the eyes of travelling cats, whose experiences mirror those of human society. Overarching all the themes of this trilogy is the issue of ‘Good’ versus ‘Evil’, where the terms ‘God’ and ‘Satan’ are used to denote opposing values, qualities and lifestyles.
The speech of the cat characters who come from Jamaica is distinguished from the speech used by non-Jamaican cats by changing the word ‘you’ to ‘ya’ and its linguistic associates, and no attempt has been made to replicate the patois more commonly used by many Jamaican citizens.
Book One is set in Ireland and serves to introduce the heroine, TKC, along with the book’s major characters in the trilogy and its most prominent themes. The first half of Book One is devoted to TKC’s kitten year of life. The sudden switch of content and tone in the second half of Book One to that of a more violent format has been done deliberately to sharply reflect the marked contrast between childhood and adult years: between being protected in a family setting by loving parents, to having to fend for oneself in a hostile environment of rampant discrimination, desolation and destruction.
The Kilkenny Cat Trilogy is an allegorical story of all manner of discrimination practised throughout the world; and particularly in Ireland, Jamaica and England. Told through the eyes and experiences of travelling gypsy cats, it is a must for all cat lovers and students of the discrimination, the 'Northern Riots', Ireland, Jamaica and Northern England and 'Good v Evil.' It is suitable for reading by teenagers and adults.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Forde
• Release date: Sep 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465917676

William Forde

William Forde was born in Ireland and currently lives in Haworth, West Yorkshire with his wife Sheila. He is the father of five children and the author of over 60 published books and two musical plays. Approximately 20 of his books are suitable for the 7-11 year old readers while the remainder are suitable for young persons and adults. Since 2010, all of his new stories have been written for adults under his 'Tales from Portlaw' series of short stories. His website is www.fordefables.co.uk on which all his miscellaneous writings may be freely read. There are also a number of children's audio stories which can be freely heard.He is unique in the field of contemporary children's authors through the challenging emotional issues and story themes he addresses, preferring to focus upon those emotions that children and adults find most difficult to appropriately express.One of West Yorkshire's most popular children's authors, Between 1990 and 2002 his books were publicly read in over 2,000 Yorkshire school assemblies by over 800 famous names and celebrities from the realms of Royalty, Film, Stage, Screen, Politics, Church, Sport, etc. The late Princess Diana used to read his earlier books to her then young children, William and Harry and Nelson Mandela once telephoned him to praise an African story book he had written. Others who have supported his works have included three Princesses, three Prime Ministers, two Presidents and numerous Bishops of the realm. A former Chief Inspector of Schools for OFSTED described his writing to the press as 'High quality literature.' He has also written books which are suitable for adults along with a number of crossover books that are suitable for teenagers and adults.Forever at the forefront of change, at the age of 18 years, William became the youngest Youth Leader and Trade Union Shop Steward in Great Britain. In 1971, He founded Anger Management in Great Britain and freely gave his courses to the world. Within the next two years, Anger Management courses had mushroomed across the English-speaking world. During the mid-70's, he introduced Relaxation Training into H.M. Prisons and between 1970 and 1995, he worked in West Yorkshire as a Probation Officer specialising in Relaxation Training, Anger Management, Stress Management and Assertive Training Group Work.He retired early on the grounds of ill health in 1995 to further his writing career, which witnessed him working with the Minister of Youth and Culture in Jamaica to establish a trans-Atlantic pen-pal project between 32 primary schools in Falmouth, Jamaica and 32 primary schools in Yorkshire.William was awarded the MBE in the New Year's Honours List of 1995 for his services to West Yorkshire. He has never sought to materially profit from the publication of his books and writings and has allowed all profit from their sales (approx £200,000) to be given to charity. Since 2013, he was diagnosed with CLL; a terminal condition for which he is currently receiving treatment.In 2014, William had his very first 'strictly for adult' reader's novel puiblished called‘Rebecca’s Revenge'. This book was first written over twenty years ago and spans the period between the 1950s and the New Millennium. He initially refrained from having it published because of his ‘children’s author credentials and charity work’. He felt that it would have conflicted too adversely with the image which had taken a decade or more to establish with his audience and young person readership. Now, however as he approaches the final years of his life and cares less about his public image, besides no longer writing for children (only short stories for adults since 2010), he feels the time to be appropriate to publish this ‘strictly for adults only’ novel alongside the remainder of his work.In December 2016 he was diagnosed with skin cancer on his face and two weeks later he was diagnosed with High-grade Lymphoma (Richter’s Transformation from CLL). He was successfully treated during the first half of 2017 and is presently enjoying good health albeit with no effective immune system.

Book preview

The Kilkenny Cat

Book One: ‘Truth’

by William Forde

© William Forde, June 21st, 2005.

ISBN 1-903124-05-0

First published: Jan 1st, 2000 as a gift to Falmouth Schoolchildren

Revised publication: 21st, June, 2005

Cover illustration by Joel Stephen Breeze, Dewsbury, West Yorkshire.

All text, characters, reproduction, manufacturing, exploitation and artwork copyright reserved by William Forde.

Revised publication, September 2011

Copyright September 2011 by William Forde

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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‘The Kilkenny Cat’

Book One: ‘Truth’

(Dedicated to my father, Paddy Forde) Born 21-03-1916 : Died 27-03-1991

Author’s Foreword

The Kilkenny Cat has been written as a trilogy. Book One deals with the theme of ‘truth’, Book Two with ‘justice’, and Book Three on the theme of ’freedom’.

All three books seek to show that truth, justice or freedom cannot exist in isolation, and that the only way one can experience any one of them is when one is able to experience all three.

Book One is set in the country of Ireland, the land of my birth, Book Two in Jamaica and Ireland, both countries I know well, with Book Three being predominantly set in Northern England; the place where I have lived for most of my life.

The trilogy is designed to show that every country on the face of the Earth exercises discrimination against some of its citizens. The nature of discrimination may subtly change and vary from one country and situation to another in both shape and form, but it will always be present in some degree for those of us who care to look.

Particular forms of discrimination looked at in this trilogy include the issues of colour, race, religion, age, culture, sexism, disability, homophobia, gypsies, asylum seekers, refugees and economic migrants.

These issues are looked at through the eyes of travelling cats, whose experiences mirror those of human society. Overarching all the themes of this trilogy is the issue of ‘Good’ versus ‘Evil’, where the terms ‘God’ and ‘Satan’ are used to denote opposing values, qualities and lifestyles.

The speech of the cat characters who come from Jamaica is distinguished from the speech used by non-Jamaican cats by changing the word ‘you’ to ‘ya’ and its linguistic associates, and no attempt has been made to replicate the patois more commonly used by many Jamaican citizens.

Book One is set in Ireland and serves to introduce the heroine, TKC, along with the book’s major characters in the trilogy and its most prominent themes. The first half of Book One is devoted to TKC’s kitten year of life. The sudden switch of content and tone in the second half of Book One to that of a more violent format has been done deliberately to sharply reflect the marked contrast between childhood and adult years: between being protected in a family setting by loving parents, to having to fend for oneself in a hostile environment of rampant discrimination, desolation and destruction.

My heartfelt appreciation is given to the artist Joel Stephen Breeze for the cover of all three books. I also extend my thanks to ‘cat expert’ Silvia Williamson for the invaluable information she gave me at the research stage of this trilogy.

My eternal gratitude, however, is reserved for my deceased parents, Paddy and Mary Forde, all of the Forde and Fanning family, and the Brennan family of Kilkenny, Ireland; all of whom provided the inspiration for this book’s setting.

By better understanding how we became who we are, we can more easily understand the nature of the person we have become.

William Forde, September 2011.

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Chapter One

‘TKC is Born’

TKC was born in the most unfavourable of circumstances, during the cold, early-morning hours of a snowy February in the year 2,000 A.D.

At the time of TKC’s birth, her mother was homeless, hungry and close to death.

It had been snowing heavily for six hours and the sudden drop in temperature, which had been ushered in beneath the cloak of the fierce North wind, signalled to the heavily pregnant cat that the snowfall would be quickly followed by a period of severe frost.

Having been forewarned about the coldness of Irish winters, TKC’s mother was only too well aware of the dangers of giving birth outdoors, especially in the middle of a snowstorm.

She knew that winter kittens born outdoors usually died. The mother-to-be had spent the previous three days frantically searching for somewhere safe and warm indoors. However, each time she thought that she had found somewhere suitable to give birth, someone came along and chased her away.

As the moment to give birth drew closer, TKC’s mother grew more fearful. It had been almost four days since she had last eaten and, having travelled far, she was close to collapse and too weak to travel much farther.

All of the elements of nature seemed to be against her. The weight of the three kittens inside her was making her passage through the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground extremely difficult.

With her final drop of energy almost spent and her bucket of hope now empty, every sinew and aching muscle of her body seemed to be shouting at her to stop and have a rest.

Having spent earlier years in much warmer climates, where snow is as rare as a two-tailed dog, the biting cold of the icy North wind had quickly penetrated her three layers of fur. The wind was gnawing through her skeletal bones with the ferocity of barbed wire pressed tightly against tender flesh.

It would have been so easy to stop, so natural to give way to a force of nature greater than oneself, so inviting to surrender up the life within in exchange for instant death and a speedy end to all earthly pain.

However, TKC’s mother was no quitter. She had come too far to let go of the reins of life until she had reached her final destination.

For another thirty minutes, she plodded on slowly, fighting to move forward against the might of the windswept snow.

Blinded by the force of the oncoming snow blizzard, she was driven onwards only by the sheer determination of motherly love, and the desire to give her three unborn kittens the chance of life.

At that precise moment, when her weary legs were refusing to walk another step farther, she saw a light in the distance.

Unsure as to whether the flicker of light she had seen was a star in the snow-stormed sky or the imagination of her half-opened eyes, she used what little energy she had left in an effort to move closer to it.

The light came from an oil lamp which was positioned on the inside window ledge of a nearby cottage, somewhere on the edge of County Kilkenny, Ireland.

As soon as the pregnant cat saw the cottage, a flicker of hope re-ignited itself in the shadow of her soul, giving her just enough energy to travel that few yards farther.

It had been her intention to try to make it to the cottage door, in the hope that her scratching might attract the attention of the occupants, but before she could reach the cottage door, she sank into a mound of deep, soft snow and came to an abrupt halt.

As she struggled to recapture her breath, the first of her three unborn kittens started its journey into this life. After giving birth to the first kitten, she could tell immediately that it had been born dead. It was a male kitten. Five minutes later, a second male kitten was born. This kitten was very small and died minutes after its birth.

The grief-stricken mother looked at her two dead sons, lying there in the snow. They looked so small, so very helpless. Realizing that they would never see the world, which she had fought so hard to bring them into, she began to drown in a sea of sadness.

Tears of loss flooded her snow-covered eyes as the unbearable burden of grief began to overwhelm her senses. The weight of her sorrow made her feel that her heart had been broken in two, crushing any remaining bodily resistance.

Just then, when her spirit had sunk so low, she felt a kick in the pit of her stomach as the third kitten decided to announce its imminent arrival in the only way it knew how. The sudden movement of the third unborn kitten inside her, informing her of its eagerness to taste life, jolted TKC’s mother out of her mental state of grieving madness and back to the immediate problem of the ‘here and now’.

She knew that if she did not give birth to the third kitten soon, it would die inside her womb. Yet, to give birth in the open snow would guarantee its early death. Torn between the uncertain torment of how to respond to the dire situation she faced, she looked around her in search of some protection that might serve the purpose of a kitten’s crib.

Apart from the outline of the cottage, a few garden trees and a picket fence surrounding the property, everything else was totally covered in a thick blanket of snow. Then she felt the presence of something beneath her body, something hard and round, which was buried beneath the snow.

Using her two front paws, she began to shovel away the surface snow in an attempt to get to the object beneath the winter groundsheet. TKC’s mother had discovered an empty, terracotta plant pot which had been left standing there in an upright position. The angel of mercy seemed to have answered her prayers in the shape of an old, frost-proof, earthenware pot.

Sensing that time was quickly running out, TKC’s mother poked some of the snow out of the top half of the plant pot and patted down the remaining snow in the bottom half to create a white mattress, firm enough to hold the weight of a new-born kitten.

Having prepared the kitten’s crib, TKC’s mother allowed the third kitten to be born. Once born, the mother licked the kitten clean. Then picking it up in her mouth, she gently placed it in the space she had created in the top of the plant pot.

As she gave the newly born kitten the little milk she had, she gazed upon the cuddly ball of life she had brought into the world. A quick glance at the kitten’s coat and paws informed the mother that her newly born daughter would grow up with the same proud distinguishing marks as herself.

Having fed the kitten, TKC’s mother prepared to die, carefully ensuring that her outstretched body covered the plant pot beneath which cradled her daughter. She knew that if she died in this position and place, her death would not be without purpose, as her outstretched carcass would protect the kitten beneath from the cold bite of the early-morning frost.

By the time a new sun had filled the morning sky, TKC’s mother was dead. Her snow-covered corpse lay rigid across the top of the plant pot. She had spent the last hours of her life shielding her third kitten from the winter cold and smelling the small bundle of life beneath her belly while gazing sorrowfully upon the tiny snow-covered corpses of her two sons nearby.

For many hours following her birth, TKC lived in a world of darkness and distress. Although the newborn kitten could not see its mother up above, it could smell her presence. Moreover, it was this special smell of its mother, which helped to keep it alive.

The smell of the mother was so strong that it seemed to speak to the kitten beneath. It seemed to say, Hang on, little one! Hang on to life and don’t give up! Hang on and help will come! Hang on, little one! There’s a big, beautiful and exciting world outside this cradle, waiting to welcome you into it with open arms. Hang on to life, little one! Hang on and don’t give up! Instead of surrendering to the darkness in her life, the kitten decided to ‘hang on’ in the hope of better things to come.

Having placed her trust in the hope of brighter times ahead, the optimism of the newborn kitten was duly rewarded with a stream of sunlight, cascading its way into the plant pot from its waterfall in the sky above.

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Chapter Two

‘TKC is Found’

As TKC lay in her world of darkness, the newborn kitten heard noises. They were strange noises belonging to another world, noises which came from beyond the darkness. The noises came from the voices of Mr and Mrs Brennan, a kindly couple in their mid-50s who lived inside the Irish cottage. Shortly after hearing the voices for the first time, the cap of darkness was lifted from above the place in the plant pot where TKC lay, and light flooded into her world. The rush of light was like a reflection of sparkling diamonds being viewed for the first time through the translucent wings of an angelic butterfly.

The light carried with it pockets of warmth, which melted the shield of darkness that had previously acted as a weight upon the kitten’s closed eyelids, forcing TKC to blink her first vision of the outside world into gradual focus. Before the kitten could readjust her senses to her new situation, a big, monster hand reached down into her cradle of birth and hoisted her up into space.

TKC instantly shook with fright as her small body was suddenly rocketed out of the plant pot from one world to the next. Unaware of what was happening to her, fear invaded her body, and she began to wriggle in protest. Then she heard the noise again, as the monster hand holding her little body passed her across space and into the hands of another human monster.

The hands of the second monster, which now cradled the kitten, were like the voice that accompanied them, much smaller and softer in touch. These hands did not hold TKC as tightly as the other monster hand had done. Instead, they began to gently stroke the kitten with quiet purrs of reassurance. There now, you poor thing. There now! What you need is some nice, warm milk, you poor thing, Mrs Brennan said softly as she carefully carried the kitten inside the cottage.

Mickey and Anne Brennan were a kind, but odd couple who had somehow found each other at the age of 17 and had lived together ever since. Despite being different in some important respects, they shared enough similarity in other character traits to be suitably matched in their eccentricities.

Whereas Mrs Brennan could easily lose her temper when placed under pressure, her husband was constantly losing his patience with either this or that. They had been married for almost forty years, and although they got on well with their neighbours and the other citizens of Kilkenny, they were never a couple who mixed easily outside the company of each other. In many ways, they preferred their own company, eating from their own larder and being in their own home.

Mr and Mrs Brennan loved four things more than anything else. They loved each other, their home and their cottage garden. They also loved tidiness, almost to the point of obsession.

Their decision not to have children or pets in their life was agreed upon very early in their marriage. It was not that they disliked either which prevented them becoming parents or pet owners. It was the mess, noise and fuss which always attaches itself to children and pets that Mr and Mrs Brennan disliked.

You see, Mr and Mrs Brennan were creatures of quiet and tidy routine. Everything inside their home and cottage garden had its prim and proper place. Shoes and other footwear were always to be found on parade in the entrance hall, polished and ready for wear, positioned side-by-side in the perfect symmetry of strict regimented line, awaiting the frequent inspection of their Commander-in-Chief.

Chair cushions were never allowed to sneak into a posture of crumpled ease, even when they were being sat upon; and even Mr Brennan’s daily newspaper was ironed flat before it was ever read.

To walk inside Mrs Brennan’s kitchen at a time of the day when the sun was at its brightest was not recommended, unless the eyes of the observer had been shielded beforehand with a pair of sunglasses.

The sparkling condition of her glassware, the shiny faces of her polished pots and pans, and the pristine cleanliness of her over-mopped floor surface became powerful reflectors of the sun’s rays, which gained entrance via the spotless kitchen window.

Whether it was inside the cottage or in the garden outside, untidiness was ‘public enemy number one’ in the daily priorities of Mr and Mrs Brennan.

Very early on in their marriage, a natural division of labour began to emerge between Mr and Mrs Brennan, ensuring that both home and garden were always in a permanent state of tidiness. It had been decided that Mrs Brennan would be solely responsible for keeping the inside of the cottage prim and proper while Mr Brennan’s tidy duties would be confined to the garden outside.

This had proved to be an arrangement, which had worked well for almost forty years. It fulfilled the individual needs of this happily-married couple, besides preventing them getting under each other’s feet as they cheerfully negotiated their daily tasks. So, as Mr Brennan happily worked outside the cottage keeping the garden neat and orderly, his wife spent her day inside the cottage, cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing, polishing and dusting to her heart’s content. At the end of their day’s work, each marriage partner would inspect the tidying tasks of the other and congratulate themselves upon a job well done.

Many of their less tidy neighbours thought them to be a strange couple and would often poke fun behind their backs. If Mrs Brennan scrubs that pan clean one more time, she’ll poke a hole in it! the women neighbours would laugh.

They do say that she’s the only woman in Kilkenny whose floors are clean enough to use as dinner plates! they remarked in whispered tones.

Likewise, the men of Kilkenny were constantly joking about the tidiness of Mr Brennan’s garden. Tommy Walsh told me that he saw Mr Brennan polishing the leaves on his cabbages last week! one Kilkenny citizen told another laughingly.

And isn’t it strange how you never see so much as a fallen leaf on his patch of lawn? another neighbour remarked.

That’s because he spends all day catching them before they hit the ground! another neighbour jibed.

Although the neighbours of Mr and Mrs Brennan considered the couple to be a pair of fusspots, nobody disliked them. They were a harmless couple who possessed faces, which were easy to make friends with.

Mr and Mrs Brennan had awoken that February morning to find the garden outside their country cottage covered in snow. Mr Brennan had been the first to see how much it had snowed since they had gone to bed the previous day. He was concerned about the welfare of his tender plants and shrubs, and he began to worry that the overnight frost might have killed off some of the recently planted species.

To Mr Brennan, his garden was his Heaven on Earth, his little piece of perfect Paradise and his corner of contentment. His flowers and vegetables were his most precious of treasures. For almost forty years he had lovingly looked after this cherished plot of land, spending every hour of daylight throughout the four seasons of the year planting, weeding, pruning and generally keeping everything in the garden shipshape.

To him, the unfolding of a rosebud in Spring was a birth worthy of celebration, and the unexpected loss of a plant to the pernicious ambush of a winter frost, was no less of a bereavement than the death of a child who’d been lovingly nurtured and cared for during the infancy of its life.

And though he loved all of his garden children, the pride and joy of his horticultural family was his patch of prize cabbages. His Savoy cabbages were the pride of Kilkenny and the undoubted stars of any cabbage competition he ever entered. For ten years on the trot, he had won the Kilkenny Cabbage Cup at the Spring Show.

What’s your secret? his gardening neighbours would often ask him enviously. What’s your secret for growing champion cabbages year after year, Mickey?

Apart from talking to them in Gaelic whenever they looked a bit sorry for themselves, Mr Brennan did not do anything different to his cabbages than any of his other cabbage-growing neighbours. But there was no way that he was ever going to admit to them that he talked to his cabbages!

As Mr Brennan looked nervously out of the kitchen window, he cast his eyes around the snow-covered garden, looking for signs of any litter, which might have gained trespass entry during the eye of the snowstorm. Both he and Mrs Brennan had the eyes of a hawk when it came to spotting anything out of place. Minutes later, his meticulous observation was rewarded when he noticed something strange in his garden. It was something that most certainly had not been there yesterday; something that had no right to be there now!

Being too far away to recognize the offending object, he solicited the ‘I spy’ services of his wife. While his own eyesight was better than most men of his age were, his wife’s was better still. She could spot a pimple on a dimple on a bearded man’s chin at thirty paces!

I can see it, dear, she told her husband. I can clearly see it, but I can’t tell what it is. It’s covered in snow. It . . . could be a piece of windblown driftwood . . . I think.

Mr and Mrs Brennan continued to look at the object for a few minutes before their curiosity overcame them. They put on some warm clothes and winter footwear and then ventured out into the garden to investigate. As Mr Brennan moved closer to the object, he could see that it was motionless. The stillness seemed to confirm the likelihood that it was a piece of driftwood as suggested by Mrs Brennan.

He bent down, picked it up, and began to brush away the layer of snow, which now covered its surface in a coat of frost.

Convinced that he was in fact holding a piece of wood, he was astonished to see two eyes, a head, body and tail begin to emerge from beneath the snow. Goodness gracious! he exclaimed in fright as he dropped the object to the ground. Goodness gracious! It’s a dead cat!

Poor thing! Mrs Brennan replied. Poor thing! It must have frozen to death in the cold of the night. Poor thing! Then Mrs Brennan spotted something else. Look! she cried in astonishment as she pointed towards the upright plant pot. Look, dear! In the top of the plant pot. It’s . . .it’s a little kitten curled up in a ball!

Mr Brennan reached down and lifted the kitten out of the plant pot with one hand.

Be careful, dear! Mrs Brennan remarked. Be careful, you big, clumsy brute or you’ll crush it with those big, rough hands of yours. Here, pass the poor thing to me before you squeeze the life out of it!

Mrs Brennan took the kitten from her husband’s hands and began to gently stroke it, saying as she did so, Poor thing! You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside the warm house before you catch your death of cold. What you need is some nice, warm milk, you poor thing!

While Mrs Brennan carried the kitten indoors, her husband decided to bury the dead cat. He walked towards his garden shed for a sack and a spade. The sack would be used to place the corpse in and convey it to the chosen burial site and the spade would be used to dig the hole. As he walked towards the garden shed, he spotted the two dead kittens nearby. The smell of death was starting to irritate his nostrils. After placing the mother cat and her two dead kittens inside the sack, he carried the three corpses across to a corner in his garden where he grew his cabbages.

Being February, the cabbage patch was bare, so he dug a deep hole and placed the two kittens and the dead cat in it. He then said a brief prayer as he gazed down at the ginger corpses.

After filling in the burial hole, Mr Brennan made his way back to the garden shed to clean his spade before hanging it back on the peg. Goodness gracious! Well, I never! What a morning it has been! Goodness gracious! he muttered as he began to scrape the soil off his spade.

Whenever Mr and Mrs Brennan experienced any shock, surprise or upset to their daily routine, she would say ‘Poor thing!’ or ‘Poor me!’ and he would exclaim ‘Goodness gracious!’ or ‘Well, I never!’

Whatever the cause of their upset, the origin of surprise or the circumstances of their distress, these favourite words of expression seemed to satisfy the suitability of all occasions.

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Chapter Three

‘TKC is Named’

Once back indoors, Mrs Brennan’s level of anxiety quickly lowered. She was always happiest inside instead of outside her home. Her home represented ‘the heart of her’ and was a place that naturally made her more confident in her capacity to get to grips with the complexity of any problem that faced her, firm in the belief that she would do the right thing and do it well.

She got out an old, wicker basket, and after lining the base of it with one of her old, woolly jumpers, she gently placed the kitten inside. Then she moved the basket closer to the warmth of the fire. You wait there, you poor thing she told the kitten, before going off into the kitchen where she warmed up some milk.

There you are, you poor thing! Mrs Brennan exclaimed upon her return with a saucer of milk, which she carefully placed inside the basket. The kitten smelled the milk and then moved towards the saucer to taste it. In its eagerness to lap it up, combined with the unsteadiness of its movement, it knocked over the saucer.

Oh, poor me! Mrs Brennan cried out in distress when she saw the spilled milk inside the basket. Oh, poor me! This will never work. What a mess! What am I to do? Oh, poor me! she exclaimed in panic.

The more that Mrs Brennan looked at the spilled milk and the messy basket, the more upset she became. Nothing upset Mrs Brennan as much as mess. Once she got upset, her body would start to quiver in a blob of uncontrollable anxiety. The longer she remained upset, the more violently she would shake. The quiver would graduate to a wobble, and then rapidly move towards a violent shaking motion — like a wobbly plate of jelly before the fall being held by a pair of unsteady hands. Nothing would stop the shaking, until the mess had been removed and tidiness restored.

Realizing that the kitten was still too young to drink milk unaided, Mrs Brennan ran outside and told her husband to go to the chemist’s shop. Oh, poor me! Quickly! Go to the shop quickly and buy a baby’s feeding bottle, she commanded. "Go on! Go now, man, before