I don’t know if it’s too much work, too much running, too much house-wife-ing (because not only am I now cooking proper food that doesn’t include toast, but last week I took the hem up on a pair of curtains. Just call me a domestic Pogess), but I seem to have finally, completely and utterly lost the plot.
Last night Norman cat and I were doing a bit of tidying up waiting for Himself to get back. I was chatting away to him while he sat behind me watching from a cardboard box I’d put to one side for recycling while I stuffed things in drawers when I heard:
‘Hello. It’s me.’
I froze, squeaked and turned round to see Himself had walked in the house without making a sound. Of course it was him who had spoken. But for a few seconds there I really, truly, honestly thought Norman had learned to talk.
I think I need a lie down. In the sun. For about a fortnight….
And in other news, it snowed (a teeny tiny bit) in Beachbumpkinsville! (I’m assured this is only marginally more likely than cats learning to talk…) :o)