...Quite why 'the cat sat upon the mat' I cannot fathom, though it does allow one to speak it in wonderful Edward Fox clipped tones. Try it, 'tis such fun.
Our cat - if one can use the possessive of such independent creatures - will sit anywhere she pleases of course, as they do, but to sleep it oft must be upon my pillow. Particularly in times of feline stress - a noisy firework-ridden New Year's Eve for example - she will wait for my retiring at the foot of the bed, but before my head has reached its target will have landed there first.
Not easy to rest when one has a loud-purring, oft-stirring fur hat of a cat to contend with clamped, more or less, to one's crown. Impossible even when she begins to lick said crown. A tribute no doubt and a sign of deep affection, but a hard, wet and continuous scraping of the skin is no soporific.
Nor indeed is one pillow quite enough room for a human's head plus cat. The design of the thing is entirely modelled on just the single occupant. We do not exactly contend for space, but she'll not be budged so I must find what corner I may to find purchase.
I could, perhaps should, be more masterful and chuck her off. Make her lie on my shoulder like normal cats. But she has my entire sympathy for needing comfort on such a tremendous night.
I have no great - nor indeed any little - love for New Year's Eve. We'll toast in the New of course with the champagne and watch the fireworks that light the entire sky. But I've no recall of such moments when one has sighed 'That last year was a total corker, can the new live up to that great precedent?' Oh no. It is always much more 'God, can it get any worse? I fear it can and will!'
No wonder then they call hope the 'Cinderella virtue', frequently left home alone and out of the feasting. I really must ask her to the ball more often.
But I didn't spot her there last night and neither clearly did the cat.
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