Balconies and Cat Opera

On the apartment’s shady side there is a smaller balcony.  It is big enough for F's shopping bike, the barbeque, some chairs and a bed, and the clothes lines are out there.  It is the cool side in summer, but the view is of a concrete retaining wall (much higher than our balcony), car park spaces, the messy side of other apartments, and cats.

Loads of cats.

The cats wander along the various levels on the concrete wall, sunbathe, sleep, fight, mate, eat, conduct their lives generally, and all within view. I’m still not entirely convinced they can’t get onto our aft balcony but in a year none have managed it.

 

Initially I spent hours keeping an eye on the cats, something F&Mr B started to call “watching the football”, and I would occasionally have to broadcast my views on the cheek, proximity and behavior of the feral felines.  “Shouting at the ref” has become a frowned-upon activity.  F gets really exercised about it if I start expressing at 0300 – the dark quiet hours of the morning.   I get dragged in and the doors slammed shut, even on sweltering nights in mid-summer.  Still it’s quite funny having her jump out of bed in her ‘altogethers’ to chase me back indoors.

 

I purr in her face when she gets back into bed to let her know it’s a good game.

[note from the secretary: Tigger’s idea of shouting at the ref has more in common with cat opera than football.  He’s out there practicing coloratura soprano parts or howling at goodness knows what at the only quiet time there exists in our noisy city environment.]