Ginger and the Ghost of Lorna Doom

'Oo wants to go on 'oliday then?' Sounds nice don't it? But you ain't a cat faced wiv a leery great lump of 'umanity wot 'as more in common with a great ape than a great finker. I could tell 'E was 'avin' a larf, wiv 'is voice all cootchy coo like that, so I let's out a squall and makes for the cat flap, claws skitterin' across the new laminate, cursin' the loss of the carpet wot 'ad proper purchase for a fleein' feline. 'E just stands there grinnin', doesn't make a move for me tail, so I knows 'E's been sneaky plannin', but it's too late to stop now, and I fumps into the cat flap wiv a yelp. The door's already bolted - way faster than I could. 'E finks it's so funny 'E's creasin' up. I finks 'es a total tosser and tells 'I'm so in straight 'isses wot 'ad done a snake proud. 'No escape this time Ginger! 'You's comin' wiv us on 'oliday!''E crows. 'I 'as ovva fings to do wiv my summer, fanks,' says I, licking my bollox, pretendin' me 'ead doesn't 'urt. But he's so hignorant 'e don't understand. So now we's on the way to the seaside. Five hours in a picnic basket you wouldn't put an 'am sandwich in, and insult to injury, they puts a brand new collar round me neck, wiv studs on like I was a bleedin' dawg. And when we finally stops at one of them Service Stations they clips on a lead in case I runs off, so now I looks like a one-eyed ginger terrier. I's so 'umiliated I ducks under the van and stays there till they 'auls me out like a stickleback, fur all singed by an 'ot pipe underneaf. They says the pipe was hexausted. Who flamin' cares? It 'ad no cause to take it out on me. I wasn't the one makin' it overheat, but now I as extra stripes in me fur. They looks at me wiv a mix of mirth and 'orror. 'I know!' yelps the Missus, and yanks open one of them overhead lockers. Out comes a little pair of nail scissors. I ain't 'avin'' me nails clipped, not for no one, so I does me best to show 'er 'ow useful they is when tacklin' unwelcome attenshun. But Mike picks me up by the scruff and 'olds me danglin' ' while she snips away at me best fur. Great chunks of it falls onta the floor as I watches in 'orror, wondering if I'll turn into one of them 'airless Egyptian moggies. 'There!' She exclaims as if she'd just finished sculpting an 'Enry Moore, 'That'll start a new fashion I reckon.' She gets out a mirror and shows me 'er 'andiwork. I looks like a ginger poodle, me back cropped short, but wiv ginger tufts on me shoulders and bum. Words can't do justice to what I had to say so I won't bovva your ears. The only advantage was, I now matched the dog collar, people might mistake me for some kind of rare Chinese mutt. They shoves me back in the 'amper, and off we goes again, me practisin' Chinese 'owls all the way till we stops. ''Ere we are, at the seaside!' announces Mike as we drive inta this campsite. I's 'eard about the see, but exactly wot joys it will bring I 'as yet to find out, so I doesn't join in wiv the squeals of delight from the Missus when she lets me out. Must be twenty vans all parked round a field. I fink, 'Ere we go!' There's dawgs as big as Diesel all parked up alongside the vans. No one else on the campsite 'as a cat, so my 'oilday is gonna be one long helter-bleedin'-skelter. I knows they only brought me to save the cost of leaving me behind, but if I've gotta spend a fortnight wiv a dog collar and lead, duckin' an' divin', I ain't stopping' 'ere even if you paid me in straight steaks. First off this little girl comes over, 'Funny sorta dog you got!' She says, draggin' a little chihuahua behind 'er. It's the sorta mop you uses on the laminate that puffs out 'ot air, and it's strugglin' wiv the long grass. I 'isses politely to let it know I doesn't like any kinda dawg, specially not one that's no bigger than the cow pat it's sniffin' 'Why's he only got one eye and a poodle cut?' asks the pesky kid, pointin' at me. 'E's a special breed, from Abyssinia ,' says Mike. 'They only 'as one eyed cats in Abbyssinia, an' their fur moults in summer so they looks like lions.' I 'as to give it to 'Im 'e can tell fibs almost as good at a cat, not even a twitch of a whisker. The girl picks up her floor mop which yaps and licks 'er face. 'Wouldn't let it do that if I was you!' Mike says, 'You don't know where that tongue's just bin!' She looks at 'im and screeches for her mum. 'You bovverin' my dorter?' The muvva bellows across the field. A big dawg beside 'er barks and races to the end of it's chain, snarlin' an' swearin' in Cornish I shouldn't wonder. 'Your daughter needs 'er mouf washin'! yells Mike, 'Dawg's just chewed a turd and licked 'er lips.' 'You need to wash your own mouf out!' The woman yells back, and goes to unchain 'er dawg. I nips back in the van, no point in play in' the 'ero, and leaps on top of the bunk, climbs back in the 'amper and pulls the lid shut behind me. Wot ensues would heducate an 'eathen. And we ends up bein' thrown off the campsite. We must've tried five ovva sites, and all of 'em was full, so 'E finks he'll just pull in beside a lorry in a layby. Might've been all right, only fifty motorbikes pulls up behind us for a jamboree, so Mike and 'is misses gets pissed as pythons, forgets my cage ain't locked and falls asleep wiv all their clothes on. It saves a lot of bovva in the mornings, but they can't get the 'ang of lickin' their clobber clean no matter 'ow many times I shows 'em. Wiv them hoblivious to the roar of fifty bikes takin' off again, I takes off too, makin' for the 'ills. Turns out they ain't proper 'ills though, we've only pulled over on the edge of some China Clay mines, which ain't actual mines neither, just dirty great roads running all over the place, an' those bikes is raisin' dust clouds an 'urricane would rate, Well, guess 'oo starts sneezin'? Dust is so fick me fur turns white like I'd 'ad a terrible shock an' jus' then Mike wakes up an' comes staggering out for a leak. I 'ides behind a big rock, sneezin' fit to bust. 'Sounds like Ginger...,' 'e says, peerin' over the top of the rock, eyes the colour of rubies, ''Nah! It's a white poodle, can't be 'im.' I begs to differ. I no longer wants to run off, me nostrils are ticklin' and me fur needs a dry clean, so I makes for the van door. 'Oh no you don't!' Says 'E, and boots me into a ditch, climbs back on board and slams the door behind 'Im. There's only one fing for it. I jumps up on the bonnet, and presses me nose up against the winda, pleadin' to be let in. She lets out a screech that she's seein' the ghost of Lorna Doom, and 'E starts the engine. Beats me 'ow they can both be legless one minute and fit to drive the next, but off we goes, lurchin' all over the China clay pits, me 'angin' onta the windscreen wipers wiv me teeth, 'er bellowin' we's bein' 'aunted, and Mike yellin at 'er to shut 'er face. 'There's no such fing as ghosts, you silly moo, you're seein' fings wot ain't there!' I tries to hindicate I is very much there, but 'umans cant understand paw signals even on a good day, so 'E manages to fink I's a figment of 'is imagination doing aeronautics across 'is windscreen. Never ceases to amaze me 'ow the average 'uman can persuade 'iself of just about anyfing if it suits 'im. Just when i finks it cant get any worse, there's the loudest thunderclap you ever 'eard, and rain starts beltin' down. Course 'E sets the wipers goin' but I daren't let go or I'll fall down one of them clay pits, so I 'angs on for dear life, flipping from one side to the ovva like a rag doll in a washing machine. When the rain turns to 'ail, 'E pulls up, mops 'is brow and stares at me like 'E's the one seein' a ghost. 'Ginger?' 'E asks. I considers answerin' but daren't let go of the wipers. 'It's Ginger! ' 'E cries, all excited, 'Lorna Doom is only our own friggin' moggy!' Turns out the rain done me a favour, washed the dust out me fur, restored me to ginger glory, so now I's the long lost 'ero of the hour, bundled up in a towel and given tinned salmon for tea, only it's gone two in the mornin' and me stomach is still recover in' from doin' the okey coley. So much as I appreciates the offer I 'as to decline as I' throwin' up all over their bed, and we've still not found a place to stop. If this is what passes for a relaxin' 'oliday I'd rather do wivout fanks. '