Miss Mistoffelees

Our young guest was quite extraordinarily cat-like this morning as she rubbed her chin against her mother’s hand, so I’m forced to abuse Mr Mitoffelees’ name - September Song Challenge - here.

As soon as our guests went off home, we raced to the TV and the Ryder Cup – correction, HH had made no concessions to their presence and watched it from the sofa while the rest of us breakfasted sedately at the table. But what a thrilling day. My heart bled for dear Tom Watson and his team, but swelled with pride for the Europeans. Can hardly bear to wait another two years for the next one.

After the matches, the celebrations, the prize-giving and more celebrations, we finally got ourselves into gear to come up to the hills. We’ve only been here once since the end of July and have been missing it like mad. No Pepsi to greet us, though I still nourish hopes that she might show up one day. However, Kayla was beside herself, and while she doesn’t have as rich a vocabulary as Pepsi, we still got the massage that she was very pleased to see us.