Cat Daddy and I were out walking one day when he said, “Look! There’s a cat! A ginger one!”
Me: “Where?”
Him, pointing: “It just went into that hedge.”
I looked, but was just too late. I peered at the other side of the hedge to see if the cat would come out but, a couple of seconds later, a black cat exited, shook himself down, then crossed the road.
Me: “That’s not a ginger cat.”
Cat Daddy: “Weird. A ginger cat went into that hedge, but a black one has come out!”
Oh. Mon. Dieu. Either we have found the feline equivalent of Mr Benn’s costume shop* or – and I think this is far more likely – we have stumbled upon one of the many vortexes (vortices? vorticii?) which transport the little sods between worlds.
*Younger followers: ask your grandparents.
What secrets are held by these hedges? Do the anodyne evergreen leaves conceal some sort of fancy control room, all shiny panels and flashing lights, like Doctor Who’s TARDIS? Or is the interior more like an empty void through which the cats fall before landing in their destination, rather like the weird dimension to which Homer Simpson travelled in the Homer³ Hallowe’en episode? In fact, is that the reason why falling cats are said to always land on their feet? If they’re in the habit of falling through time and space, they will have had ample practice in perfecting their landing technique, non?
So many questions.
I have asked Louis Catorze if he can explain it all. He says he can, but he doesn’t want to.
louiscatorze.com 
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