A cold morning start. My dreams were like Lem plots, and my sleep was not sufficient to slough off a week of screen-staring. Today, we’re going to Mike Sigman’s Internal Strength workshop, of which more on Repulsive Monkey in due course. The sun glances through a shivering beech hedge, much lightened by Autumn wind and rain.
I feed the cats with nutritious lumps of who knows what ocean fish. Some for you and – move out of the way dear thing – some for you. Poor things, they would starve without me. Wander into the next room for my camera (good light always makes me reach for it these days).
There’s a dark shape on the floor.
This is probably the worst feline murder yet. Apart from that blackbird a couple of years ago. That was the worst. The body has got a fat tail (it’s not a mouse, and rhymes with cat, fat, and mat), it’s been half chewed, and two spots of blood bear witness to a struggle. Plainly, the taste wasn’t to the victor's liking as, going back to the kitchen to get undertaking tools, I see there are vomited portions of it on various kitchen surfaces. How did I miss all that two minutes ago?
The body goes into a handy bit of cardboard packaging, and I collect the, um, bits (is that a little rodent foot?) into another bit of cardboard.
By now the culprit and his brother – it’s hard to tell which one, and they both have form – are probably curled up on the still-warm bed.