Post-dessert (and Post-Brexit) Blackie jumps up on my lap. He circles around listlessly, sets up a steady beat of stomach kneading, and finally looks up into my face in a wordless wide-eyed glare.
What do you want? I ask, stroking his black mohawky fur.
He clings a bit to my shirt, unsure. And then, in the absence of having any kind of sensible answer, he throws his head back and yowls, long, loud and slow.
Is Blackie a punk rocker, whose “ideas [are] espoused, shouted and blasted through power chords, distortion and breakneck drumming“?