Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Page A

sulkily. 'So what happens if you need more? You get British or Mallorcan worms?'
    Â Â Alan puffs out his bottom lip. 'Well, I suppose there's no harm in mixing them, is there?'
    Â Â Paco's face displays a rascally smile. 'Apart from a few linguistic problems, they should be fine.'
    Â Â Catalina and I have been standing quietly behind the men. I waggle a finger at her.
    Â Â 'Hello old chap, my name's George Worm.'
    Â Â 'Ah, mi amic, som José Cuc !' she replies in a squeaky voice, 'You like Mallorca?'
    Â Â Miquel turns round and observes us coolly. 'You may joke, but it is sometimes bad to combine species. You don't know what might happen.'
    Â Â Rafael, who has up until now been drinking a coke and slouching against the wall with Llamp playing at his feet, claps his hands together theatrically.
    Â Â 'Yes, you could create a monster breed, Alan, or maybe they end up fighting. We Mallorcans are very nationalistic, remember!'
    Â Â 'Don't say I didn't warn you,' Miquel growls.
    Â Â He plods off across the patio, past the pool and down the steps to the field.
    Â Â 'Where's he going?' asks Rafael.
    Â Â Alan looks glum. 'To check on our water level.'
    Â Â This is a critical time of the year for gardeners. As June approaches, the free, gushing mountain water we receive through a series of sluice gates in the field dwindles, and our water tank, the old safa reig , runs dry. During the summer months, the water is rationed and must be used sparingly. It's a worrying time for the Scotsman.
    Â Â 'So,' says Rafael. 'Explain to us again how this contraption works.'
    Â Â Alan, who is finding the Spanish hard to keep up with, sighs. 'Can I explain in English and Catalina will translate?'
    Â Â ' Vale ,' says Rafael.
    Â Â Catalina views him sternly. 'OK, but you shouldn't have given up those lessons with Paula. You're forgetting your Spanish.'
    Â Â He pulls a face. After a lengthy translated explanation, Rafael fiddles with the shelves of the wormery. 'So you put the kitchen rubbish in here and the worms eat it. Then some weeks later, by some magic, it turns into compost?'
    Â Â 'That's just about it.'
    Â Â He and Paco look admiringly at it.
    Â Â 'No waste, no electricity and good compost. It's a fine investment,' Paco says.
    Â Â 'We should all get them up here,' adds Rafael.
    Â Â Alan has a glint in his eye. 'Not a bad marketing idea.'
    Â Â I give him a thump on the arm dreading that this might become another fanciful business idea for him and his chum, Pep to explore. 'Don't even think about it.'

    For the past few days, our builder Stefan and two of his men have worked tirelessly on building a stone wall at the front of our house to which they have attached an electronic gate. Now it is finished, Ollie and his father spend an inordinate amount of time trying the newly installed entry button which is linked to an internal telephone on the kitchen wall. They seem to derive infinite pleasure in seeing the gate open and close of its own volition.
    Â Â The telephone has been wailing all morning. A friend in the village of Fornalutx has been caring for a pair of abandoned male kittens and, with much lobbying from Ollie, we have agreed to give them a home. She calls to say that she will deposit them at the house this afternoon. Much as the Scotsman might prefer the presence of a dog around the house, he has a sneaking affection for Inko and has finally succumbed to the idea of two more felines joining the family. I barely finish the call when Catalina is on the line, making final arrangements for this evening. Together with her wonderful aunt, Maria, we are off on a midnight snail hunt. The hunting of cargols is a national sport and late May is the best time to find them lurking in the hedgerows and in the long grasses. I flit outside and begin telling Alan about the kittens and the timing of my snail excursion but the shrill sound of his mobile stops