I've written two posts today already and if I'm boring people to death I apologize but if I didn't get it out I'd go even more bonkers.

Henry phoned my landline a little while ago, his voice weak and hard to hear. He said the cats hadn't been fed for about five days. I very gently told him to stop playing with my heart strings he hung up.

After losing my vision for a millisecond I sat down and phoned his secretary she said he's been "going a bit mental" and that he phoned his daughter at 4 on Sunday morning saying the garden was on fire. Somehow someone got an ambulance and Henry was re-admitted to hospital where the doctors said he had a chest infection and also advised he see a psychiatrist, he of course refused.
The secretary also told me that Colin, his handyman, fed the cats this morning, I'm hanging on those words.
He has angered and upset his children at just after two this afternoon, has managed to make me feel like shit.

I came to an agreement with his secretary, if she or I hear from the neighbours we will let each other know, because someone has to look out for the cat's welfare. Henry doesn't care, not really, in all of his madness he still has the guile and wickedness to use the moggies as a bargaining tool.
Fuck you Henry. I am sick and out of sorts and as usual haven't got a soul to tell except my cyber friends. I need to act, thinking never gets anyone anywhere.

I hope I won't need to blog again about this hellish situation and I know in the great scheme of things the lives of two 'rescued' cats are unimportant.
But they are.