It’s 07.29 am, it’s my last day of freedom from work, and the cat’s just been sick on my bedroom carpet. 😦 I think I’ve mentioned before how Meg eats at the speed of light, which is fine, except she then celebrates by hurtling round the room, also at the speed of light. Trouble is, it nearly always all ends in catastrophe.


I’m sitting up in bed, at the moment, eyeing Meg’s late breakfast, lying just where I might step in it, and reaching for a box of tissues. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but there’s something singularly unpleasant about the prospect of having to mop it up, and then go and cook breakfast for the human inhabitants of the house. Bacon and eggs? Forget it!


Cats, why do we keep ’em, if not to cause the maximum amount of disgust (as above), or embarrasent when they hiss at visitors, claw the furniture, and generally wreac havoc. Yet still they manage to maintain an image of angelic soberiety when they want something. Go figure.



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