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Coffee Morning Whispers: Poldark is forgotten in the blink of a cat fight





You may not believe this, but sometimes, if I haven't seen or heard from Patsy in a while, I get withdrawal symptoms.

You see, when I'm with her, I always have to be on my toes, dodging bullets and the occasional punch to the stomach. When I'm not with her, I can become complacent and prone to thinking I'm smarter than I actually am.

It had been a week and I needed a dose of Patsy, so I trotted off to her gaff for a cup of coffee. I must be a masochist.

She was prostrate on the sofa, sighing for Ireland, as she caught up with our very own Aidan Turner dressed as Poldark. "He's even more sallow than Jose," she muttered, misty-eyed with lust. "He must be using a bucket load of that Egyptian bronzer stuff."

He certainly makes my other half look pastier than a bucket of whitewash.

"Just looking at him makes me want to go upstairs and tie myself into that bustier I bought on the interweb."

The only way Patsy will fit into that bustier is if someone sucks all the air out of her.

Meanwhile, there was fierce shrieks coming from the kitchen. Jose was playing some sort of game with Sami that sounded like the cat was giving him a Chinese burn.

The scene that greeted us was a long way from Poldark scything the meadow with his shirt off and his abs glistening as if he had been slathered in 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter'.

Jose, bless him, was down on all fours, barking like a terrier with social issues and wagging his bottom as if he had a tail.

"HEY SAMI, ES USTED UN HOMBRE O UN RATON!" he roared, which is the Spanish version of 'Hey Sami, are you a man or a mouse!'

The cat wasn't taking this insult lying down. He made a couple of runs at Jose, hissing like rattlesnake and flexing claws that could take a man's eye out.

After 10 minutes of this, he got fed up went over and sat beside the fridge. (Lest there is any confusion here, I am referring to the cat, not Jose).

"That means he wants something to eat," Patsy said.

Sami was duly given a bowl with choice cuts of chicken. The diva turned his nose up at it and, instead, trotted over to the counter and sat looking up at the microwave.

"He wants it heated," sighed Patsy.

"The three of you should go on Britain's Got Talent," I said.

"We have thought about it," Patsy replied

My withdrawal symptoms had disappeared.

I needed to go home and lie down…