Of cats, and the cold

Another uphill day today - it's not good for a man of my age to go for a drink on a Tuesday. Even if that drink is really in the singular, and last night I was mixing beer and wine. Or wine with beer. Now, which one makes you feel fine, and which way round doesn't?

I suppose that had allowed me to bear the Terror of the Taxi without a nervous breakdown, but I didn't sleep well and as a consequence my concentration was shot today; it took me 14 hours to get round to ordering a birthday present for a friend, and normally I pride myself on remembering that sort of thing.

Pride comes before a fall, and so I suppose I should wear a helmet and knee pads when I leave the flat next, just in case.

In the evening I scurried from the office at six, in order to get to my martial arts session in Sai Wan Ho at seven, and got home well after nine, at which point I realised I had sort of omitted dinner from my busy schedule. Thankfully, there was half a packet of pretzels in the kitchen.

Or unfortunately, there was half a packet of pretzels in the kitchen.

I singlehandedly gobbled down the sodium requirements of a classroom full of children, then sat on the sofa, idly eating slices of Terrys' Chocolate Orange and wondering if that was enough calories for the day. The cat sat on me, which was a great solace in these difficult days of January. I may have failed to make good on any of my resolutions for the year so far, but the cat isn't bothered. As long as I have a warm lap, she's happy to give me affection.

Now, the cat and I do have a confusing relationship. I suspect the real reason for her sitting on me is that it's chilly in our apartment, because she was never so keen in the summer months, but I'll let that slide. I mean, she has fur, I don't, so I should be grateful that she sits on me. But she doesn't just want me for the warmth (food is covered by my fiancee, who always gets up earlier and is thus the de facto cat feeder). Earlier this week, I came home confused about my life, so I took my trousers off and sat on the sofa until I stopped being confused.

You'd think that with my bare skin being slightly warmer than a pair of trousers, the cat would derive more heat from my uncovered legs, but she wasn't at all keen about sitting on my lap, or at least not until I'd put some jeans on. (Don't think I was doing anything pervy here, I did keep my underpants on, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.) But it seems strange that we should have a prude for a cat.

Ok, perhaps you don't spend time thinking about my bare legs, in conjunction with cats. Perhaps I should take that back. I'm sorry, very, very sorry.