Tom is on tour with his noisy box and the house is delightfully peaceful. That is, until Jess gets on the phone to him... As far as I can gather, he is in America, travelling around, making a lot of noise with 99 other people who also make a lot of noise. But it's not the noise that's currently alarming me.
Jess has cousins over there and it seems they invited Tom to dinner. He had a great time...playing with their cats. A white one and a black one - Maine Coot, no less, those great fuzzy monsters that must have left genes somewhere in the dreaded Artie at No.17. Apparently they do laps.
Laps are not written into my contract. I do purrs. I do stretch-schmoozes. I even occasionally deign to let Jess or Tom stroke the white fur on my tummy (not many others dare to try, except for one pianist who knows what to do with his fingers and has an alarmingly soothing effect). But LAPS? How demeaning can you get?
Unfortunately people want cats who do laps. So Tom says to Jess, "Maybe we should get another cat."