A CAT NAMED GINGER  

Gordon Smith lived on fried eggs, sausages, chips and a myriad of tinned food after Irene, his wife, died. He dreamt of the dumpling stews, roast lamb and the cakes Irene seemed to produce so effortlessly.

He couldn't believe his luck when he met Gladys Dobson, a bright-faced woman like Irene and like her, perhaps too pudgy around the hips but he liked a woman with a bit of padding and discovered besides being a widow, Irene was a renowned cook.

He inveigled an invitation to afternoon tea at their third meeting. When he arrived at Rose Cottage and saw the luscious cake bedecked with cream, strawberries and chocolate shavings she'd created, he thought here was the woman for him.

Cakes were Gladys's specialty. Each concoction seemed to outdo the other.

Gordon drooled over the large portion of Strawberry Hazelnut Gateau with lush strawberries nesting in cream which Gladys set before him. He dug into a serving and demolished it with relish and eagerly accepted another helping.

Gladys invited him to pop in whenever he was passing. "You're so thin," she said, her eyes large and sympathetic.

Gordon had always been thin. In spite of the fried eggs, sausages and chips, he hadn't gained any weight.

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