Colourful cat head with stars on a calf

The cat came back on Tuesday with paint on her ears, which is how we knew Aunt Ivy had been in the barn again. She has been mixing tins of gloss for the cider shed since June, pink and tangerine and a green that smells of pear skins, and Tuppence walks through every pot she can find. You will laugh, but she looked like a fair in a fur coat, streaked from nose to tail, and she sat on the windowsill as if she had planned it.

The apples are coming down faster than we can pick them. Father says the Bramleys will be ruined by the weekend unless the wasps get bored first. I spend the evenings on the ladder with a sack and a torch, and last Thursday, when the Perseids were out, I counted eleven stars fall over the top field before I gave up counting. Tuppence watched from the wall with her tail going, and every time one streaked she gave a small offended chirp, as though the sky owed her a mouse.

Aunt Ivy says the cat is a painting that got out. She says the trick is to leave the splatter where it lands, because a cat that is too neat is only a cat. I said that was a rubbish excuse for a barn full of paint, and she gave me the look she used to give Grandad.

Come up before the frost. Bring the blue tin if you can find it. Tuppence has been asking for you, or at least sitting by the gate.

Love, Maud