Strategic noodles

He may be a big cat, with ambitions to be bigger, but there is clearly a physical imbalance, between me and Barry. To be frank about this, I am bigger. Dealing with this calls for strategy on his part.

In bed, f'rexample: he's annexed that half that lies next to the wall, which is the part I actually like to sleep on. I'm fairly sure he knows this, because he is Teh Evil. What it means is that once he's settled, I'm condemned to sleeping on the wrong side, which means sleeping more shallowly even than usual, and waking more often. And so rolling over, turning on the radio, staring into the dark. You know. Wanting to turn the other way into my habitual sleeping-position, but unable. Defeated. Usually when I do this, he flicks a vague ear in my direction; sometimes he lifts his head for a moment, as though to ask for less noise please. No more than that.

One time last night, I woke to find him not curled into his usual contented bagel-shape, but thoroughly stretched out. He is a long cat, but he was at his limit; and he had his forepaws braced against the wall, and his hind legs braced against my hip, and he was pushing, I tell you. Pushing...

Also, banh pho. Vietnamese rice noodles. He likes these, and not only for the flavour. They are long and crisp; when he bites them, they snap, and the ends skitter across the lino floor, and can be chased. And bitten again, and snapped again, and chased again...

Other people walk on egg-shells; I walk on shards of noodle.

McNaught

This is my thirtieth year in this job: in this exact same job, sitting at keyboard telling stories. You'll get no promotion this side of the ocean. But in all those days and months and years of working, I have - of course! - become expert in work-avoidance, in all those displacement activities that take me away from the keyboard, away from the job. There are those lies I tell myself - "I'll just go for a walk, half an hour, I can think about the next scene while I'm walking" - and the lies I tell other people, "No, I have to go into town to do this, I need the space/solitude/convenience/resources of the library/pub/whatever..." And then, every day, the things I don't even bother to lie about any more, "I'll just do the washing up/laundry/cooking/cat-cuddling first, before I go upstairs and get involved in LJ/e-mail/surfing, before I do any work..."

On the other hand, how many times have I said "I'm just going out to look at the comet, before I get back to work"?

Twice, by my count. In thirty years, that means it's still pretty fresh as an excuse.

The last time, I actually saw a comet. This time? Nah,: clear skies overhead, but a band of cloud on the horizon, sod it. Actually, that seems to be kinda common; wonder if there's a word for it?

So I came home, and look: here I am, almost working...