Having gone to bed with a headache that has lingered mercilessly since Tuesday’s curtain pole trauma, I am awakened by Sister coming into my room to tell me it’s nearly time for me to get ready for church, and that she’s going round to a friend’s house. I groan, my head still throbbing.
“Oh, and your cat has learned a new trick,” she informs me disdainfully.
I open one eye. “What has she done now?” I ask in concern.
Sister grimaces. “She has climbed up to the box of dried cat food, knocked it over, clawed the food out, eaten an obscene amount… and then thrown up everywhere.”
I groan more loudly this time, reclosing my eye and putting a pillow over my head.
“On the plus side, I’ve hidden the rest of the cat food, and there’s a pot of coffee on. I’m away out. Have a nice night!”
She leaves me alone with a bulimic cat and the delightful prospect of cleaning boke off the floor. Kat the Cat wanders sheepishly into my bedroom, and we look sadly at each other for a while. She collapses in a fat heap in the floor and sighs heavily. I haul myself out of bed with a great effort, and plod wearily downstairs. At least the central heating’s fixed, I tell myself encouragingly.