under another sun

Someone ringing the doorbell repeatedly at 4.00am this morning, instead of our party-loving neighbours. This aside, our nights are much improved with no more clattering 5 am catfights through the catflap. For the evil black cat, who stared at us insolently through the window, evaded water pistol jets and was unafraid to take on humans too, has gone. Our neighbour Mark told us EBC had adopted a local house, and moved in with another mild mannered black cat. However EBC's bullying got so bad that its new owners contacted the RSPCA, where a chip was discovered, and it was returned to its original owners after four years, ending Brian's daily battles. Both our cats have noticeably relaxed. Lorraine and I had a large breakfast, watching a documentary about Peter Gabriel from the comfort of the gold sofa. Lorraine has a bad cold,  and I had a sore throat and felt wan, perhaps rather exhausted after doing the Bangram style canter so much the day before. A lovely roast dinner, befo...

The strange ways of cats A peaceful sleep. Celebrated by dragging beds and futons around with Lorraine. My ear is still drearily deaf and half my head painful. I can't identify the source of sounds and have to ask Lorraine to repeat everything. Gah. Meanwhile Calliope blatantly tormenting the tabbys Brian and Basil. She clearly does it for fun: rushing them, sprawling provocatively in their way or ambushing them from strange angles. I feel ashamed of her: I didn't bring her up to be a bully. Beyond these domestic struggles are The Black Cats: three black cats who have staged invasions of the house and stare insolently through the glass of the front door. Brian and Basil are their sworn enemies. I don't know how Calliope fits with them yet. Oddly Brian and Basil don't hate Calliope, and they all touch noses from time to time, and rub along. The ways of cats are strange.