Poor Angela, I don't think she'll ever visit me again.
Looking for the shoe shop in Canterbury, we passed one of those Barnacle Bill outlets. Now it happens I'm in the market for a new sextant, as I noticed last time I was visiting Janet in Whitstable hers had a whole horizon mirror, making my old thing look terribly jejune. So in we go. Angela's mooching around the place, totally uninterested, when suddenly she lets out a piercing scream.
"Urgh! It's a stuffed cat!"
Sure enough, there in a wicker basket on the bottom shelf, curled up as if it had just washed itself and fallen asleep, was a stuffed moggie. By now Angela has dissolved in tears, so I summon the assistant for an explanation.
"Madame should not be upset, there is no problem," he explains.
"Oh good, so it's not real then?" I emphasise the 'not', hoping to reassure Angela.
"No, no, no sir," says the assistant, chuckling at our misunderstanding. The relief was tangible.
"It is made of rabbit."
With that Angela runs out of the shop in hysterics. Despite the assistant calling after her to the effect that she should not cry, because rabbits are very common, it rather put the kibosh on the rest of the afternoon.