They know, you know

The house I was brought up in had a long, dark corridor between the kitchen and the entrance hall which was exclusively for the servants.

We had a big old cat whose name I will not tell you, because it forms part of a series of security questions used by several banks to verify that I am who I say I am - i.e. not Tom Stephenson.

Damn, I have just remembered that my estranged brother has been known to read this blog and he not only knows my real name but also the name of our long-dead cat. I am going to have to change the childhood pet's name answer to the security question to stop him from stealing even more of my overdraft than he already has. I might as well name the bloody cat.

During the Winter months like these, Prudence (there used to be a children's book character called Prudence Kitten) would suddenly revert to kittenism and charge up and down the servants' corridor as if her arse was on fire.

When we heard this manic skittering of her claws against the polished linoleum, we knew it meant only one thing. Within an hour or two, it would snow.

She never failed. These rare episodes of explosive and pointless energy bursts would always be followed by snowfall.

One Winter morning I came down to the kitchen to find my mother sitting at the table, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief. She wordlessly pointed to the shabby cardboard box which served as a bed for Prudence (my father was a thrifty man to say the least) and I saw the ridged body of the old cat lying on the fur-covered blanked, frozen with paws outstretched. She didn't look as though she was asleep. She looked dead.

When my mother did speak, she said, "How are we going to know when to expect snow now?"

Actually, she didn't say that at all. I thought it would be a good end to this aimless story.