Wuthering Heights

I've taken the cat to my parents before heading up to Edinburgh. This seemed a good idea, but has been a mixed success.

The weather has been awful, so the cat has gone from joyously excited about being in the country to a howling siren hidden somewhere in the garage. Neither mum nor I have slept much in the last three nights.

Somewhere outside is a lovely garden, but we haven't seen it for a few days. Instead we sit huddled in front of the fire (in August!) while Dad rings up from his cricket up the road, complaining of sunburn.

My mother's latest peculiarity - she broke a finger the other week, but hasn't bothered going to hospital. Instead she reset it herself and made a splint out of brown parcel tape. I've tried pointing out to her that this is Crazy Old Lady behaviour, but she shrugs and reminds me that she was a nurse for many years. "But mum," I argue, "All your patients died..."

She shrugs again. "They had more wrong with them than a broken finger, I can tell you," and then shuffles off to paint a ceiling.

I now love/fear her in equal measure, and may soon be joining the cat in the garage.