Shaking Shibboleths - III

I have been long called a witch, to which The Husband took great offence early in our relationship.  "Who else", he asked, "calls you a witch?"

Well, a long time ago, I lived in an apartment building in Johannesburg.  It was a small building with only three units one of which was inhabited by a little boy and his mum.  He turned six early the following year, during which time his mum and I developed a firm friendship.  I became "Mummy-two" and would regularly tuck young Son-from-another-mother into bed with a story.  One day his mum informed me that her son had decided that I am a witch.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"You drink tea - lots of it - and you have a familiar."

"Oh?"

"He's been reading up about witches and what identifies them.  The tea, yes.  But you had to have a familiar - preferably a cat.  He decided that Comfrey was your familiar even though he's ginger, not black."  

Perfect logic, right?

Well, by the time I met The Husband, Comfrey had long chosen a wizard over the witch, and Son-from-another-mother and his mum had been living in another country for years.  I still had a cat - a tortoise shell - who had been my constant companion, then, for about thirteen years.  I digress other than to say that during our courtship, The Husband (then not), decided I was a witch - a benign one...

Since then, Son-from-another-mother has visited our home, and on his most recent one, discovered not just another ginger cat, but Princess Pearli, who, as a kitten was permanently in a pickle.

The regular pickles* explain her tatty ear, and her being ebony, in at least the eyes of two very important men in my life, confirmed my status as witch!

*more about these in future posts

Postscript:  This is the third in a series of photographs around the "thirteen" theme.  Here's the second, and there's a link to the first, there.

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