Quiet Sunday afternoon.
Blackie snoozes on dining bench in a curious fashion. His sable velvet body is perched on a pile of rugs on the bench, but his head lolls off the pile and rests directly on the bench, a few centimetres below the rest of his body. He looks like a cat being poured downstream. This can’t be comfortable.
Poppy is also curled up in an aesthetically impressive fashion. This afternoon, he has selected a white-and-black cushion that plays off his dark grey-and-white colouring. It’s not an exact match, of course, but then again this is not a fashionable household.
Cupcake and Curly have been locked up together in Cupcake’s room, for the betterment of rather rocky romance. I do not exaggerate when I say this. Their budding relationship had seemed to be making tentative progress in the past two weeks or so. But last night, a lovers’ erupted quite suddenly and Cups dashed wildly into my wardrobe in a fit of pique, where she proceeded to spray pee and poop everywhere. (True to the mercurial nature of young feline love, they have made up and are now ensconced on the couch.)
Thus it should be said that the afternoon is quiet only now, after the washing machine ended its fourth run of the day. There are prayer-lines of drying clothes everywhere in the flat, and a faint scent of washing powder lingers in the air.
Altogether, not an entirely unpleasant afternoon.