Miraculously, Louis Catorze has not scratched his wound and it’s healing nicely. I don’t know whether this means the stars are aligned in some magical way or the apocalypse is just around the corner but, frankly, I’d even take the latter if it meant not having to Cône him anymore.
His eye area, although no longer bleeding, is still bald and shows his freakish paper-white skin. It looks just like the eyebrow tattoo of a gang member on Death Row:
Meanwhile, his thyroid medication is supposed to get easier, right? Well, it doesn’t.
Sometimes, very rarely, it goes smoothly. I glove up, apply the gel to one finger, then Louis Catorze approaches me and I grab and swipe in a seamless movement.
The key seems to be that the little sod approaches me. If ever I’m the one having to seek him out – for instance, if I need to get the job done so that I can go to bed – that’s when the bother starts. Despite being thicker than a concrete milkshake, the sight of me heading towards him with a suspiciously scrunched-up fist makes him rightly wary, and then he’s off.
I had a failed mission last night when I managed to grab the little sod but he wriggled free and escaped. Any further approaches, even the ones in which I tried to Act Normal and pretend I was doing something else, were met with mistrust, and he kept scampering just out of my reach. Eventually he jumped over the fence and into That Neighbour’s garden, where he knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t follow.
As I say to my students: “All you can do is your best.” Even if your best is a bit shit.
(I don’t tell them that last bit).
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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