Talking Point, with Ron Harris

Ron Harris'Picture by Lindsay Addison
Ron Harris'Picture by Lindsay Addison
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Find out what’s, literally, eating the Gazette’s chief reporter this week!

MAH very deepest apologies tae the good folk o’ Nemphlar for all yon ruckus at aboot nine o’ clock oan Sunday night.

Doubtless mony of you will still be trying tae scrub the cocoa stains oot the carpet after dropping your mug in shock at the horrendous, gut-wrenching scream o’ agony that rent the air o’ your tranquil wee hamlet oan the Sabbath nicht.

Doubtless mair will have already solemnly buried their poor auld budgie in the back garden after its fatal heart attack that night.

And ah ardently hope that the local fermers have, by noo, managed tae round up their stampeded cattle frae fields fae there tae Ferniegair after they panicked and fled at the terrible commotion.

Ah apologise for all this because it was all mah fault.

Weel, tae be exact, the true guilty party was a wee stray ginger kitten cried Spud.

Y’see, it was aboot nine last Sunday, aboot three miles distant frae Nemphlar, in Bonny Lanark, that ah settled mah weary, aged limbs intae a bath fu’ o’ hot water.

It was no’ until that very moment ah realised – too late – that instead o’ being made oot o’ the customary skin, mah legs noo’ consisted entirely o’ scar tissue. The sudden and unexpected contact t’ween yon mass o’ wounds and the scalding water proved wance and for all that the Harris clan have an unusual allergy tae intense pain.

The resulting shriek frae oor cludgie ah understand was heard weel up the Clyde Valley in wan direction and startled flocks o’ corbies intae flight as far as Tarbrax in the other.

Folk in Leedhills were angrily phoning the RAF and threatening tae withhold their Cooncil Tax if low-level bomber exercises didnae cease immediately; and in The Forth a blameless teenager got an unjust clout roond the lug frae his maw for having the volume oan his Resident Evil 4 video game up too high.

Aye, a new kitten and all the ‘joys’ such a creature brings wae it has entered mah hoosehold, it being the first tamcat ah’ve ever had and the weirdest-looking example o’ its species ah’ve ever seen.

At the moment it weights aboot hauf a poond and ninety percent o’ yon bodyweight must, ah reckon, be made up o’ lion-sized paws, claws and fangs. All yon weapons it ungratefully unleashes oan me and The Good Lady Wife withoot whom, ah might add, it wid have been fox-fodder two weeks ago when it was born oan a derelict factory site shortly afore some son-o’-a-bachelor poisoned its mum.

Onyway, that’s us landed wae it for the next 13 years or so and ah can already see the Lanark vets rubbin’ their haunds wae greedy glee and planning lavish future foreign holidays oan the strength o’ this unexpected addition tae oor family.

Why dae we – or onywan for that matter – bother tae have a cat at all? (Beats me, Ed!)

It was only during its third night wae us when it clumsily staggered ontae the bed, licked mah nose and then curled up intae a purring, warm ball o’ fur oan mah chest that ah minded why ah’d defend this thing wae mah very life.

When it came tae creating a sleekit con-artist wae its cute dial permanently set at eleven, the cat has just GOT tae be God’s ‘Design Classic’.