Startling only in its unstartlingness (there should be a word for this...)

He excels himself.

He has stolen and eaten an olive. A green olive, stuffed with Stilton.

That is all. Not all the olives, blessedly; but all the olives he's getting. Ever.

In the interests of even-handedness

I really ought to post a pic of Barry in his helpfulness. He is not stealing olives, no; he is helping.

I have a print-out of the new novel, and I am reading through it and scribbling thereupon. Or endeavouring to do so.

All my camera batteries are flat, but never mind. I will allow you to imagine, in what way his bulky lordship is helping me, in all his black furry untransparentness.

Liveblogging the cats. Apparently.

Hah! He was never going to sit still for that.

Besides, he was sitting on my typescript.

I displaced him, and got back to work. And heard the strangest sound from the kitchen, such as a man might make fishing about with a chopstick inside a snare-drum. Mac went to investigate; so did I. And found Barry atop the stove, in the very act of stealing capon from the curry: with a chunk on his claw, no less.

We have had a conversation.