Normally I’d bounce my writing train-wrecks off my other half, but she’s presently doing a Florence Nightingale for her 92-year-old father, 80 miles away.
Last night I needed something sorted with my writing, and emailed this globe-trotting wheeler and dealer I know, hoping he’d have an answer.
He waffled. (I should have known better; he’s done it before)
In desperation, I decided to outline the problem to Riley. For those of you who haven’t met him, Riley’s our not-quite-4yo black and white cat.
Riley stretched, yawned and listened, as I outlined the problem. And, Lo! and behold, we figured it out. I decided he could become my official sounding board for all future writing problems, gave him a pat, and told him what a clever cat he was.
I scribbled a rewrite of the offending scene, and got ready for bed.
Crash!
That was a glazed earthenware soup tureen shattering on the kitchen floor.
Riley had obviously been quite chuffed by his new status, thought the world was his oyster, and had cornered a gecko on a shelf in the kitchen. There is only so much space on a shelf, so something had to give.
And I had to deal with the gecko’s remains before I could put my head down. The image stayed with me and I couldn’t get to sleep.
Damn cat.



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