While sat here in the study at home, in an otherwise empty house, I finally realised the reason I’m having trouble typing, and that I can’t feel my toes is because I’m damn cold.
I do this regularly, by the way; become so engrossed in doing things that I don’t look after myself. Typically I forget to eat - but on this occasion, I hadn’t remembered while home from work that the heating switches off in the day. Given that it’s minus something or other outside, the ambient temperature in here is falling like a stone.
So.
I wander up to our bedroom (the heating controls are in the airing cupboard in our room - the plumbing for which looks like something straight out of a Jules Verne novel - the house was built in the 1930s).
Curled up on our bed is a lovely big tabby cat.
Not our cat.
I give the bed a shake, and say something along the lines of “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”. The cat snaps awake, sees me, and runs out of the bedroom, down the stairs,and straight out of the catflap.
Two of our lazy cats (we have three)nonchalantlywatch the visitor run past without moving a muscle.