Monday, June 12, 2006


The thing about felines, as people never seem to understand, is that we can't help ourselves but focus on anything that moves. If it's smaller than we are, so much the better. Tom - and even Jess, who never watches TV - just sit there staring at a clump of men running across a pitch, kicking a ball while crowds roar behind them. And I sit and stare too, hypnotised by that little round Thing that apparently a billion people worldwide are watching with me.

For Tom, this process is accompanied by yummy stuff: a golden liquid which froths white. It comes out of a tin. But it doesn't taste the same when you pour it out before you drink it. It REALLY doesn't. I've been exploring the possibilities of licking round the can's opening once Tom's had his cut, and later knocking it over in the firm expectation that there'll be something left inside. This causes much amusement. Poor old Tom, he just doesn't get it. He tried pouring a sip into a saucer for me and it was vile. How could you?

Jess was overheard remarking that my behaviour in front of the England match the other day made her believe in reincarnation. "Honestly, he watches football, he drinks thing we know he'll be carrying a St George's flag on his tail." Now, that's a good idea, o mistress mine. EN-GE-LA-AND!!!!!

All I hear is: "Oh do stop miaowing, you silly pusskin..."