Thursday, October 04, 2012


I'd been a bit worried about the cat. She hadn't been using her litter tray that assiduously lately. I don't mean she'd been missing it. There's just been no evidence of any digestive processes, except for the food vanishing from her bowl. You can put stuff into a cat, but that shouldn't happen indefinitely without something coming out. Yet, short of giving her a good shake, I wasn't sure what I could do to move things along.

Thus I was probably far too pleased to get back from work today and find a mound of cat turds in the litter tray. Never before have I viewed feline feces with such excitement. "Well done," I told the cat. "I'm proud of you." She looked perturbed that I was taking such interest in her intestines.

Hey, she was probably worried about being trapped in a flat with a man who talks to cats.

To win her over after this, or to reward her, or just because I thought she'd lost a lot of weight that day, I put down a bowl of fresh cat food for her and started rehearsing. I'd got about halfway through my material when she leapt up from her bowl, rushed across the room and vomitted all over the rug.

Everyone's so critical, lately.

I mean, I didn't have the best of sets at the Brewhouse last night (not adequately prepared, difficult room, dodgy microphone) but nobody got up and puked in a corner of the room.

Or over me.

So I consoled myself with this, as I scurried around an unfamiliar dwelling, searching for cleaning products when I wasn't quite sure where they'd be stored: I've never been so bad that I've had a human member of an audience throw up because of my material.

Yet, that is.


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