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cat is smiling in the sun
Tuesday, 27 September 2011 10:24 amBeing at home is lovely. I'm beginning to almost start to feel as though I may be slowly developing a grip on beginning to feel rested. But a continual home presence is also making me realise that I'm a mere amateur in the taking-it-easy stakes. Damn, but cats spend 90% of their lives asleep. It's beautiful spring weather, starting to become hot outside (insert ritual cursing here), but the house is still cool, being a high-ceilinged edifice shaded by trees and facing the wrong way. (A fact which annually saves my sanity during the February heatwaves). The cats are thus moving only to follow the sunbeams around.
The Evil Landlord considers this room to be his library. I consider it to be the guest room. The cats regard it as their own personal sun-room. Most days there are three of them on the bed.
Hobbit, on the other hand, has a different approach. Since the ridiculous thickness of his fur renders sunbathing redundant, his daily routine entails being as close to human company as possible. I won't let him sleep between me and the computer, his favourite spot, so he has appropriated the stool+cushion arrangement on which I used to elevate my leg in those giddy post-hospital days, and which I have neglected to disassemble owing to his fondness for it. It operates as a sort of feline throne: I think the care with which he centres himself on the cushion is perfectly self-conscious.
I now return to my morning's activity, which entails drifting around in a vague sort of way as I wait for the nice policeman to arrive and interview me about my burglar, who the nice police have caught. Hooray! But it's weird how difficult it is to settle to any productive activity while you're waiting for the doorbell to ring.
The Evil Landlord considers this room to be his library. I consider it to be the guest room. The cats regard it as their own personal sun-room. Most days there are three of them on the bed.
Hobbit, on the other hand, has a different approach. Since the ridiculous thickness of his fur renders sunbathing redundant, his daily routine entails being as close to human company as possible. I won't let him sleep between me and the computer, his favourite spot, so he has appropriated the stool+cushion arrangement on which I used to elevate my leg in those giddy post-hospital days, and which I have neglected to disassemble owing to his fondness for it. It operates as a sort of feline throne: I think the care with which he centres himself on the cushion is perfectly self-conscious.
I now return to my morning's activity, which entails drifting around in a vague sort of way as I wait for the nice policeman to arrive and interview me about my burglar, who the nice police have caught. Hooray! But it's weird how difficult it is to settle to any productive activity while you're waiting for the doorbell to ring.
