No man is a hero to his cat

[desperance]

It's autumn fall here, and the nights cats are drawing in. Barry was Very Helpful t'other night, finding me awake at 4am and recognising that this was in fact the perfect time to settle firmly on my bladder and go to sleep. This had the dual effect of keeping me wide awake and pinning me in position, so that I had nothing to do but think: in consequence of which, when I was finally allowed to get up a couple of hours later, I had title and opening line and general shape of a story in my head, and I was able to come straight to the computer and write the first page.

The boys like being helpful. Last night I woke up in the dark and Karen murmured, "Don't move. Barry's perched on your hip, and Mac's just behind your knees." So I slithered flat to make Barry more comfy and again bade sleep farewell: as a result of which I've spent this morning writing a brief essay on heroism, which I will point you to at a later date.

Now I think I shall go out into the sunshine, before it's all snatched away from me. I could go work in the garden; or I could go for a walk, or for a bike ride, or...

Damn. I hate choices. See, if Barry were only sitting on me, I wouldn't have 'em. But he's over there in the window, absorbing rays. Helpfully, I expect. He's kind of like a storage-heater: soaks up heat in daylight, emits it at night. Mostly into me.