Filed from the kitchen bunker, Monte Lope Álvarez sector, Andalucían drizzle zone

In my earlier adult life, we had a pet gerbil - well, two actually - then several. I really only remember Gary, sometimes called Snowy because he was an albino. One day he escaped from his cage, and Kizzy, a white cat named after Chicken George’s mother, snaffled him. That was the end of Gary.

And now, I’ve introduced two more pet ghosts from days gone by. Kizzy was an old cat who, one day, decided she’d had enough of living with three noisy kids and moved next door into my parents’ house. She spent her final days sleeping in the alcove of a south-facing window. At night, she hunted rats and would often leave a few on the doorstep.

This dispatch is dedicated to Gary and Kizzy.

Here we go…

🐾 Me:
It was 34°C yesterday and now it’s like a damp sock in a fridge. Is this the end times or just a soggy interlude?

🐶 Issy:
The rain is a cosmic reset, Dad. A celestial rinse cycle. Andalucía’s been sun-roasted for months – this drizzle is the universe’s way of saying, “Oops, forgot to moisturise.”

🐕 Poppy:
Statistically speaking, it’s the tail of a low-pressure system with delusions of grandeur. It thinks it’s a storm, but it’s really just a damp intern. I refuse to go outside unless the rain is artisanal.

👻 Gary: (materialising from the spice rack in a puff of cumin):
I bring tidings from the afterlife. It’s raining there too. But it’s upside-down and smells faintly of regret and wet corduroy.

👻 Kizzy: (drifting in through the south-facing window, trailing spectral whiskers):
I don't approve of this drizzle. It’s bad rat-hunting weather. And frankly, I liked sunshine – it made the alcove very snug.

🐾 Me:
So it’s drizzle all day. What do we do?

🐶 Issy:
We wait. We stew. We write surreal blog posts about damp nationalism and the metaphysics of puddles.

🐕 Poppy:
I’ve already drafted a letter to the Met Office demanding reparations in the form of dry biscuits.

👻 Kizzy: (looking very much put out)
It's only 19° - Poppy, mention that too. It's discustard.

👻 Gary: (floating toward the kettle):
I suggest tea. And perhaps a séance to summon the spirit of summer. Or at least a dry sock.

👻 Kizzy:
Summon summer. But leave room for rats.

🐾 Me:
Fine. No walkies. No campervan adventures. Just drizzle, dispatches, and damp dignity.

🐶 Issy:
The revolution will not be sun-dried.

🐕 Poppy:
But it may be slightly soggy around the edges.

👻 Gary:
And scented faintly with mildew and existential dread.

End Dispatch:
Next update pending kettle boil, biscuit reparations, and spectral rodent diplomacy.

More from Issy & Poppy Investigate here.