Sunday Morning

I’m sitting in the lounge with the cat. It’s our usual Sunday thing. It started somewhat earlier than planned, but I awoke to find the bedroom light, the cat about to jump on the bed and assumed it was That Time. It was only after I’d fed her and brewed the coffee that I looked at the kitchen clock to find that it was only 6:45. Spring eh?

Anyway, not to worry, Sunday is when I clear the back log of papers, so we settle in the lounge, briefly admire the cerulean sky and commence Thursday’s crossword.

She’s a bit discomfited, as, although she would normally sit on my knee, she never does when I’m in my dressing gown, so she sits on the growing pile of papers I’m discarding on the floor at my feet.

She’s 17 now and when she sits, her ‘ladies bits’ are dumped unceremoniously on the floor; it’s a bit like an old lady going to the corner shop with no bra on.

outside, the day continues to show off, with the sun rising higher in the sky and bathing the garden in fresh, Spring light. This is ominous; I can see garden tasks already accumulating on my wife’s list and I’ve not been week this week – man flu.

Still, even I can see that the apple and plum trees need a bit of a prune, so perhaps I’ll lead myself in to full recuperation wielding my trusty secateurs.

Upstairs,  there movement, the cat rises and gently puts her claws into my knee. It must be time for breakfast.

 

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