story 3.3

The undergrowth 'neath the faux timber was luxuriant. Furry gathering in the windbreaks at the base where wood met ground.

No-one had been here for a while to mark their territory.

Tatilla sniffed tigerishly to scent any remnants of previous ownership. Nothing but last night's moussaka permeated the still air.

He rubbed the roughenned texture of the wooden stands. Yes, yes...the last creature to leave his mark was a dragonish type. The sheer exuberance of the ecstatic careless permanent blue marker was a real give away.

The ground-level held no more interest.

Tatilla prowled and writhed and analysed the best leaping point to attain the heights of the table-top.

One chair was full of laundered clothes. One chair was decisively balanced with used coats lounging on the back. One chair had envelopes, advertising circulars, newspapers. One had been recently vacated, intimidated by the resident pent-up tiger.

Tatilla lept into the empty chair, and lept once more, onto the table-top.