I'd booked to go to Liverpool by train today, see the show The Hypochondriac tonight and stay overnight with a friend and come back tomorrow. A very bad plan as it turned out. It wasn't till after I'd booked the theatre tickets on line that they sent me an email saying they had to picked up an hour before the performance by the person who had booked them and could show them the credit card they were bought with. This meant that if I didn't go for some reason, my friend couldn't collect the tickets and use them, despite one of them being for her.
Well, I haven't gone. The bloody tomcat who keeps beating up Felix had a vicious scrap right beneath my bedroom window at 3.05 this morning. I went out in my nightie and began quietly calling Flad so as not to waken the neighbours. No response, so I locked the front door again and went out the back. No sign.
Tried to get back to sleep, but I was so worried about him possibly being injured, second fang ripped out (yes, not even a stump remains), etc., that my stomach started to churn. At 4.09 I rose again and swigged from the Gaviscon bottle. At 4.30-ish it was getting light and the damn birds had started tweeting. At 5.10 I admitted defeat, got up, made tea and started watching the telly. At 6.50 I texted my friend and told her that, after 3 1/2 hours' sleep, I was too knackered to do a long train trip and a show. I hadn't slept very well for the previous three nights, either.
I knew I couldn't get a refund on the £45-worth of train tickets, but I thought I might be able to get one on the theatre tickets, with the show being almost sold out. No chance. 'No tickets are refundable unless the show is cancelled,' say the box office's rules. So now there will be two gaping holes in the centre of the front row, plys a gaping hole in my bank balance, and all because of THAT BLOODY TOMCAT!!!
P.S. Flad is fine. When I finally got up, I found him asleep in the armchair. I had been creeping round in the dark at 3 and 4 am. Perhaps he had been there all along!
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