Le Tomcat Diaries: Lies, Fries, and Blue Skies in the South of France

By E.A. Menches

Mr. Blinkers is not happy about emigrating to the South of France with Hans and Victoria, though he has been promised fountains of tuna. He should have known it was all a ploy. A British tabby cat knows better than to expect paradise in a foreign country. His point is duly proven when the Provencal villa that they move into turns out to be a disaster. From the moment the dubious, perfume-laden vendors arrive, things go south for the family. A perceptive tabby with incomparable skills of deduction, Mr Blinkers is set on a journey to discovering all the aches and pains of the villa, while Hans and Victoria try to recover their losses. At the same time he is adrift in a new place, and not a very nice one. Follow Mr. Blinkers as his humans survive in the Provencal villa, and he meets his lifelong love Roe, while floods threaten to wash away his favourite sleeping spot. Blinkers will come face to face with Jinx, a one-eared tomcat who terrorizes the street, HIS street. As Blinkers helps his humans navigate the treacherous French property market, a revenge plot unfolds involving a yappy poodle, the earless shadow cat and a very long, very slippy slide. In the end who knows what lessons Blinkers may pass onto his humans, in his endless quest for more attention, more power, and more tuna. Join Mr. Blinkers in Le Tomcat Diaries and discover how NOT to invest in the French property market.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.A. Menches
• Release date: May 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310554414

E.A. Menches

E.A. Menches is the daughter of a Sales office Manager of an international company and a French Grammar School teacher whom the kids fondly nicknamed 'the dragon'. As a young child Menches started visiting France for family holidays and loved walking round the flea markets in Uzès. She has fond memories of the stone house they stayed in and swimming in the river. By age 12, she had started her French lessons, and went on to complete a degree in French and German, followed by a Post Grad in European Business Management. She used to have a flourishing translation agency which has now progressed to an international marketing agency. Her latest business offers an A-Z property search and relocation service for humans who are not on the ground, can’t search for properties effectively in a weekend and, don`t know the local business culture, ethics (or often lack of). She wants to help them avoid just getting blown away by the beauty of the place like she did. In 1998, while in Nice, France at a business meeting, she walked across the Place Massena (Main Square in Nice) and fell in love with the place. When asked by her employer at that that time if she envisaged working for them for a long time, she boldly told them, 'Yes if you send me to Nice'. Menches says she was fulfilling her dream of living in France, but it turned into one big nightmare. However, despite 13 years in court she still has many great and funny memories.

Book preview

Introduction:

Mr Blinkers

TUESDAY, 5TH JUNE

Ihave had a lot of names over the years. The one that has stuck the longest has been Mr Blinkers, though I have been called kitty-bums, tufty ear giggums, and wiggle bunny in my day, oh yes. My life has always been aggressively pleasant, and I have always been pleasantly aggressive about keeping it that way. A classically blotched chocolate brown tabby from birth, I was immediately accosted by the incessant mewling of my kin, and on spotting my opportunity, hastened my adoption from that soggy cardboard wasteland by clinging awkwardly to the nearest hand that touched me. It was not an elegant plan, but it led me to the life I now lead. A life with Victoria.

As I grew, I stepped into my traditional role as any dignified tomcat would—a companion, confidant, and decimator of hostile, inanimate enemies. I learned early that anything I could not identify deserved at least a courtesy claw. Safety first, I always say. And I say a lot of things. Victoria is a fervent conversationalist, and at her happiest, she rewards me with gifts that she lobs from the other side of the house. I return the loving gesture by running through a sneak-attack protocol designed to ward off neighbourhood birds. Victoria’s head is an excellent bird stand-in. It is our fond, fun little game. But Victoria has not been attentive enough lately. My food bowl is nearly always half empty, and she has not replaced the mouse on a string that I ate and then pooped out in her bathroom sink last Tuesday. Could this be the end?

My well-trained feline sensibilities are piqued. Something is happening. Last night when I jumped down from the bookshelf onto her tappy-tappy machine, she did not give me exactly three brief cuddles and kisses. Her feeble attempt at a jovial game ended when, on my sixth return, she wandered off into her bedroom. It was a dark, misty evening. The house had soaked in the cold like someone had wrapped it in a wet blanket and left it out in the snow. The chill kept me inside, so I could not ignore Victoria’s dismay. I followed her into her room…change was in the air. It hit the wall behind me.

A Fine Dream for a British Tabby

TUESDAY, 19TH JUNE

Victoria lay tucked into her bed, a storm of blue blanket-wrapped anguish. I could feel her sadness, so I majestically sprung onto the duvet to knead her knees. Everybody needs kneading, that’s my motto. The room was neat and warm, a white dresser complemented by two white side tables on either side of the wrought iron bed. A green portrait of some kind drew Victoria’s eyes, and she looked wistfully at it. I really want to move to France, Mr Blinkers, she cooed at me. I graciously allowed her to give me medium-strength chin scratches mid kneading. France? I asked her. What road is that in? Victoria leaned back in her bed and opened the tappy-tappy machine again. Was it an invitation? Victoria adjusted the glasses on the end of her straight nose. The pictures reflected in her blue eyes, and with every click, they changed. I watched her for some time.

The property market is changing, I can’t believe these prices. I should talk to Hans about investing in a house! I have always wanted to live in the South of France…. Victoria continued to tell me all about the road in France and how wonderful it was there: sunshine every day, beautiful beaches, and best of all—a chance to really live the dream. I was not sure which dream Victoria was referring to, but I decided it must be the one about us living in a tuna factory. Could there be a better dream? I believe not.

In fierce support of her conversation, I lay down and placed my head upon some knobbly buttons. After being pushed left a few more times than I liked, I fell asleep and let my head fill with thoughts about the tuna factory. Could it be possible? Was there such a thing as sunshine and a bedless sea full of tuna? I had to get to the bottom of it. That evening I wrapped myself around Victoria’s red head of curls, cat-hat style. I had been sleeping that way since I was a spring kitten. It kept my tummy warm, and with Victoria underneath it, no enemy could sneak up on me during the night and disembowel me.

FRIDAY, 22ND JUNE

I woke up wedged between the pillow and Victoria and had a quick bath. Once I had practiced my battle faces and cleaned both my left and right flanks meticulously, I rose and stretched, brushing over Victoria’s cheeks and head with my tail. Why was she still sleeping? It was time for breakfast, and I was in no mood for time wasting. Again, I brushed my tail over her face. Nothing. I stood and climbed over her head to the other side of the pillow. A brief tap on the nose should do it. Ah yes! No. Still sleeping. Another paw, closer to her mouth this time. Yes! No. She knew it was me. Wake up? I smelled her face a little and then dropped my paw on her lower lip. She spluttered.

No! Mr Blinkers! Victoria moaned at me. The game was on! Just when she thought it was safe, I put my paw in her mouth again. A warm arm shot out from beneath the blanket and pushed me over the bed onto the floor. Yes! We were in transit. But nothing happened. Confused and concerned for Victoria’s wellbeing (why would she ignore me like this?), I jumped back onto the bed again. Did she not realize I was hungry? Sometimes she struggled to understand my needs. Good thing I am very patient with her, or I may never be fed. I walked across her belly again and lay down on her stomach. I could see she was trying very hard to remain relaxed. I waited for the right moment…then I stood over her face and lay down.

Victoria sat up and cradled me in her arms. Okay, okay, kitty…food time. Another triumph! It was a new day, and I was eager to find out how it would go. I wanted to visit the road in France and perhaps find something I could bring to Victoria to let her know I was on board. Victoria wandered into the kitchen and opened a new packet of food for me. When she put it down, I sniffed at it and decided I was not particularly hungry. After a mouthful or two, I trotted off to make my daily rounds outside. The neighbourhood would not rule itself.

The night before I had dreamed of wonders: tuna cans stacked as high as the eye could see and no other cats in sight to ruin my nice time. What a dream! After slipping out of a dining room window, I leapt onto our green garden furniture then onto a brick wall that ran along our neighbour’s boundary. Below was Lincoln, the white, long-haired Persian from next door. He was a moody son of a cat. I sniffed at the bricks and leapt down to greet him; we had been fond friends since kittendom, when I ventured into his garden and he lazily watched me eat his afternoon meal. Some things make a friendship last, and letting me eat his food was one of them.

Morning, Blink, said Lincoln, barely moving his head. Both of his paws were tucked beneath his body giving him the appearance of a white cloud with eyes. I stalked around him cautiously. As I mentioned, Lincoln was lazy, but on occasion he would lash out and chase me if he found it amusing.

Morning. Having a good one? I asked.

Lincoln closed his eyes. Was having.

I picked around a dead bird and some kibble trails leading to his bowl. Ever heard of France? I asked him curiously.

Lincoln’s eyes snapped open. France? George went there once. He came back smelling like lavender. (George was Lincoln’s human.) Victoria’s going? he asked.

She wants to move there, I mentioned.

Lincoln rose and stretched, so I moved back a few paces from his bowl. The dead bird smelled like fun. Lincoln was never a cat of many words. What do you think it is like to live there? I probed.

The cat moved like a cold front heading towards his bowl. He ate and considered the question. Horrible was his response.

I was confused. Why do you say that? I asked him, pawing at the dead bird.

Anything away from home is horrible. And with that he slunk back inside, taking his mood with him. I slept on top of the dead bird for a while then decided to take it back to the house.

It was mid-morning, and the afternoon sun was only just starting to take hold—a cold, grey sun that hides behind the British clouds. As I poured myself through the kitchen window, Victoria came striding past to answer a knock at the door. It was Hans. A tall, particular-looking man with an unusual accent greeted her. He had dark hair that was shaved short and a goatee that flicked a little as he spoke. This man had been coming here for a while now. I did not like him. He constantly tried to touch me without my permission. Once he even had the blatant audacity to feed me. I did not eat one mouthful that night!

Lincoln had told me all about strangers and how dangerous they are. I was not going to fall for his games. Whenever he came over, I made it my duty to watch him. There had already been an incident that had caused Victoria a lot of distress. I had left her a dead bird in the bed, and Hans threw it away before she even had a chance to sleep on it. From that day forward, I did not trust him. Who throws away a perfectly good dead bird? An evil mastermind. So I decided to leave today’s present in a more convenient location where only Victoria would find it.

As I climbed onto the kitchen counter, Hans caught sight of me. Your cat’s got another dead bird, he said to Victoria. Then he tapped on the table counter three times.

Victoria came over to me and grabbed a wad of paper from the kitchen drawer. I sat as she took the gift from my mouth and threw it into the bin. She must be keeping it for later, when Hans left. Good thinking. Don’t kill little birds, wiggle bunny, okay? she said as she stroked my back twice. I winked at her meaning. I knew she meant don’t kill birds while Hans was around. He clearly could not handle that my gifts were better than his. He had brought a For Sale sign that they both placed outside in the garden. It smelled like burnt plastic and dirt.

What idiot brings a For Sale sign to a dead bird party? I purred quietly to myself as I watched them hammer it into the ground. A neighbourhood dog barked at the sound of the hammer. To be safe, I slunk around the corner and back into the house—darting from the rose bushes to the front door when Hans and Victoria went inside. They were lost in deep conversation, speaking in animated voices about France. I recalled the advice Lincoln had given me earlier: France = horrible. Was it a conspiracy? Was Hans trying to take Victoria away from me? I jumped onto the bookshelf in the lounge where they had settled. I have a good idea which area would be best, said Victoria, sitting and sipping a cup of tea, but we just need to sell up here first. Then I can finalize everything and get a place in our price range…. Hans was sitting in a heap next to her, tapping on his tea cup in sets of three. The last few weeks I had enjoyed snatches of conversation about France and its many benefits.

According to Victoria, it was a wonderful place with bottomless seabeds of tuna, rivers of milk, and no dogs. Hans leaned forward and put his cup on the coffee table on a stack of magazines I had every intention of lying on. What nerve. I leapt down from the bookshelf and took up residence behind their heads along the top of the soft, brown couch they were sitting on. "This is a good move. I am tired of Britain and the endless cold. I need somewhere I