The Mystery of the Broken Vase

When you are woken up at 4h35 by the sound of things breaking in the vicinity of your dressing table, and when you realise you left your bedroom window open, and when you live in Cape Town, you get the fright of your life. Adrenalin catapults you out of bed, wielding the first thing that comes to hand (in my case, a half-empty box of Salticrax), sweeping back the curtains and roaring with rage at the villain outside with a hooked stick trying to fish out your meagre collection of valuable jewellery (in my case, there isn’t one because, after a burglary some years ago, I decided not to replace anything of value because it was likely to happen again).

When there is no-one outside, no clumping footfall speeding off through the damp garden, no abandoned hooked stick, you think “@#&% cat!”, but when there is no cat in sight, what do you make of the ceramic vase in shards on the floor, make-up brushes scattered around, bangles strewn about…?

You do not know. You go back to bed and lie quietly, trying to calm down, eating the last of the Salticrax, glaring at the cat who innocently strolls in to see what all the fuss is about.

To be continued…

12 thoughts on “The Mystery of the Broken Vase

  1. Crochet Missy

    I’d go with the cat playing a sneaky trick on you. Just like a cat to stroll back in the room as if nothing had happened “what? me? not me.”. I would go with that because at least you can go back to sleep :)


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