No diamonds

Lucy’s column for October 7.
Drivelo…1
That promised diamond ring becomes more Zirconian by the minute, the cruise ship has drifted away to just a dot on some exotic horizon.
In their place is a leak-free new roof on the kitchen extension, and a re-vamp of this office-cum-laundry-room-cum-pantry, which now boasts a lick of paint, a potted plant, and pictures of Elvis including a collage of leaves somebody nicked on a visit to Graceland. And since Ower Annie drifted off to the pilchard palace in the sky a few weeks ago, we no longer have to share it with a litter tray and a dish of wilting Whiskas.
Give or take a set of must-have tyres on his ridiculously expensive-to-run boy toy, and some fancy new doors on the ancient garage, the sponduliks have been gushing out of our account faster than the rain poured in through our aforementioned roof.
But new tyres? Posh garage doors? Makes the drive look a tad shabby, he reckoned. Which resulted in a visit from our mate Gary Wilkins and his team from DPL Paving Ltd, which stands for drives, patios and landscapes, but which joker Guggy – for that is his nickname – suggests could be interpreted as dips, puddles and lakes.
It was nigh-on week of diggers and bumpers, hard-core and steam-rollers, endless bacon butties, more tea than a NAAFI canteen, and loads of good-natured banter, resulting in the shiniest, smoothest, car-parking space in Littleover.
When, a few months back, I suggested using some of that rainy-day money to enhance our fast-approaching dotage, the last thing I anticipated was using it on boring, sensible, joyless ventures. I had frivolity in mind. Then along comes the credit crunch, and of course, by now, the diamond is reduced to glass, and the liner has sunk without trace.
But heck, I can now walk to this infernal computer without falling headlong into the clothes basket, straighten the nets, peer in the pantry pull-outs and actually see a tin of spaghetti hoops rather than run the risk of being knocked senseless by one. There’s the added advantage of a paddle-free kitchen without strategically-placed buckets and floating mats – not to mention wet, whingeing cats - and those garage doors could well be the golden gates to paradise, such is their sparkle and allure.
But it’s that vast expanse of shiny Tarmac and prettily paved edges which has done it for me. Guggy has incorporated into the "design" a state-of-the-art wheelie-bin park, and a cosy corner with room for a patio table and chairs from which to watch the washing dry. Oh, the bliss of a back yard, to be able to peg out with impunity instead of side-stepping dodgy concrete and craters.
And who needs a flash solitaire when he’s treated me to a new clothes line?
Catlo…1
Ower Annie’s passing – her demise was well documented in this column a couple of weeks ago - didn’t go without tribute from other cat-lovers. Hot on the e-mail came a note from fellow feline fancier and columnist Anton Rippon, whose own two beauties are the family’s pride and joy, and who wrote with sincerity, and a tear in his eye.
This was followed by a call from, again, Derby Telegraph columnist, former sports editor, and cat man, too, Gerald Mortimer, who was moved enough to pick up the phone and express his condolences. And we also received a couple of thinking-of-you cards – one from my old mate Michael Nazaruk of Mickleover, the other from Doreen Hatton of Allestree, who I’ve not seen for years, but remember as a tireless worker for animal charities. Thank you all for your thoughts. But no, and thrice nay, no more cats at Orgill Towers. No, not even the prettiest, fluffiest kitten in the world.