Catmurderer

Up at seven and off to the smoke. On the train I met one of my fellow Twitten denizens Martin,who works for a hotel chain as an interior designer, and we chatted till Gatwick. It was fortunate he was there as I had left my wallet at home, and he slipped me £10, enabling me to buy tea. 

Work was frustrating and looooong. My computer did not work for several hours, then a long slogathon of tetchy meetings, and looking through thousands of photolibrary images for the concepts. Made me think of Nev who, when we used to work on the Dell account together, used to loathe trying to find computery images that didn't suck.  I left them to it at 10pm and was at home at 11:30. Found Calliope traumatised and wired on my return, and other cats had been in the house. 

Sleep was hard to come by, not helped by a large white cat breaking into the house and yowlingin the kitchen at 3AM. Full of murderous rage, I rushed downstairs and drove the huge beast out. It was insolent and looked at me on the other side of the catflap. I charged out after it grabbing the nearest thing, a carving fork, and brandishing it wildly in my yard with no clothes on. I suddenly understood homicide, or at least felinicide, or whatever the word is. The bad cat bolted before I could spear it fortunately.

Back, unblinklingly to bed. I ended up getting up, and looking at my computer for a while listening to Calliope, strangely rejuvenated, unravelling the toilet roll for the thousandth time.