It's good that D's coming home soon. I'm developing a certain Havishamesque hermitude, wandering the garden aimlessly with a knife, arguing with desultory plants. The plight of the bats worries me. I know more than I wish to about the sex lives of squash.
I'm having increasingly formal conversations with the cats, and they have the unsettling air of being on the precipice of answering back.
"Bonesy," I said a moment ago, leaning in to the cat curled up by my head, "if I died suddenly and left you alone here, would you eat my face?"
She gave a slow, indulgent cat blink.
"You're very hungry, but I think you wouldn't." She stretched, her polydactyl paw coming affectionately to rest at the very edge of my eye socket. Wearily, I remembered my Herzog. "Or you'd hold off at least as long as a human would?"
I wish that I could describe to you the look the cats cast upon me when I climb on the exercise bike and begin tonelessly belting along to late-90s pop. I attempted to render its full horror on Twitter earlier, and the closest I could come was the realization that Bonesy bore an uncanny resemblance to that portrait of Garrick as Hamlet, seeing his father's ghost for the first time. You know, the scene for which he had a wig constructed that, upon brief pressure to a trigger in his hand, would raise the hairs in sharp, uncanny alarm.