A tame poet

Saturday October 21, 2006

This has been a sour and bad-tasting day.

Woke up far too early and grouched around the house until it was light, when Dolly and I spent a companionable five minutes out in the garden before deciding it was too damp and too chill for a civilised poet and his cat. So we came in, shut the door, clicked the heating on for a one-hour boost, and then settled down to take our (separate) breakfasts. I emphasise separate because I don’t breakfast on tuna flakes any more than Dolly would care to start her day with a slice of over-buttered toast.

We sat in the dining nook looking out at the rain. A sad rain it was, somewhere between drizzle and downpour, its effect similar to the feel of a chill damp towel hanging on the rail to dry rather than being tumbled for ten minutes to restore its comfort and its character. Dolly started in on automatic cleaning, stopped in mid-lick, sighed, and entered a fugue state, gazing out of the window without seeing a thing.

“Oh, come on, girl,” I said. “Let’s have a nap and see if things are improved when we wake.”

The nap was good and sure enough, when we woke, the sun was shining around the edges of the blinds. I bounded out from under the coverlet and did my level best to beat some life out of the day. Didn’t work. I still felt sour and out of sorts. It was clearly going to be one of those days. And then it started in to rain again.

And so the day went. Wake. Bit of air. Feed. Sleep. Didn’t need an excuse to avoid writing—the very idea of work simply didn’t occur to me.

“You know what, Dolly,” I said. “I think I’ll put it down to the first full day of the Prozac season. Nothing to do with me. Can’t understand why you should feel the same unless it’s in sympathy.”

She gazed at me, all disconcerting behind those big eyes of hers. I’m afraid I’ve not been great company for a Mega-cat today, not even a Mega-cat who welcomes every opportunity to cuddle up and doze the hours away by the side of a tame poet.



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