Cat Shit On Your Salad, Madam?

I have declared war on all domestic cats.  They have no decency.  Last week I actually saw a crowd of them queuing impatiently to crap in my new vegetable patch. 

I bet Alan Titchmarsh loves a bit of cat shit on his greens.  I can almost hear him now, whining away on Radio 4: “There’s really nothing more flavoursome than a good handful of spinach covered in cat poo”.  No thanks Alan, I’ve got other plans.

I have constructed a ten foot high replica medieval catapult in my garden.  The cats, lured onto the plate by a pile of freshly turned earth, are instantaneously thrust 30 feet into the air, over the fence and onto the railway track.  It works like a dream; I’ve already notched up eleven ‘kills’. 

Unfortunately yesterday afternoon Grandmother stumbled onto the plate.  She, being of greater mass than your average tabby, didn’t clear the fence, but landed on the roof where she remains, dangling from the TV aerial by her knicker elastic. 

At first I thought I’d leave her up there to teach her a lesson, but she’s ruining the signal.  I could hardly make out any of last night’s World Snooker final.  It was the most exciting thing on in years (apart from that new daytime show where they sell your kidneys at a boot fair).  

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