Something to shore up against my ruine

Outside the house, a nice man is painting the stonework around my windows. I don't think that's quite the colour that I asked for, but hey. He's been told; I'm not going to tell him different. That way confusion lies.

Inside the house, Mac is trying desperately to help. It is just as well that cat-claws don't cut glass, or I would have no windows left. Also, it is just as well that the nice man has rigid self-control, or he would have smeared half the glass with paint, he's giggling so hard as Mac seeks ever more frantically to dig his way through to the outside.

Baz is hiding in the bathroom. Not sure why, except that it's the only opaque window (obviously) in the house. He's presumably safe there, from evil men with brushes.

In other news, both my shoulders hurt. Differently. I resent this. Also, I can no longer afford my physio. I have pink pills for pale people, but somehow that isn't quite the same.

Ah, irony

The house is warm, and the boys despise me for it, they dismiss me: they have no notion that I am to be thanked and adored for turning on the heating. They have migrated instantly away from my lap, to those curious corners that are The Warmest Places In The House When The Heating's On, discovered by long experiment, retained somehow in their tiny brains through all the months when the heating is not on and they might after all be lapcats.

It takes them about ten minutes, to make the change.

Me, I am not so flexible. I sit here and miss all the awkwardness of a furry weight in my lap, and wonder just where the devil they are...