Eight Left

Only eight left. Eight and a half if I manage to fix it. Death hit the floor at 1:14.

The cats are not normally that destructive, but this has been a gloomy week on page two. A quirky piece of furniture, a ten-year-old suede jacket, my glasses, a souvenir from Prague – why can’t they pick on the heaps of cheapo replaceable crap littering my place? No, feline taste is primo.

Or should I say, Nefernefernefer’s taste. Sir contributed to the jacket in his own urethral way, but I’m sure it was She, Sutekh’s young apprentice, that dragged it to the floor in the first place. I should be proud of my architecturally talented moggies. While Monsieur concentrates on waterscaping the bathroom, Mademoiselle is focusing on redevelopment of the domestic environment.

Open plan is all right in theory, but I see that I’m going to have to install some sort of sliding door in my new place ASAP. The Paw of Evil looms over everything. Coming home to find a chewed laptop fizzling with cat piss is not top of my wish list.