My cat is sleeping on my lap as I write.
It's not particularly comfortable for me, but that's not the point. A cat shows little consideration for its owner's comfort. They only have their own interests at heart. It's not comfy, but it's comforting. It's a pleasant way to bring the evening in.
It's nice to be writing at home. I spend a lot of time holed up in my office at the moment. I like having a place to work, but it gets repetitive. It pays to have a change of scenery now and again.
I was in the office this morning. I sat through the video footage I have of recent gigs, to get a handle on what I should do at the work-in-progress date at the end of the week. I have more material than I thought, which is good. I now need to put it into an order that sits comfortably and then learn it. While I can afford to be informal at next Saturday's date, I'd like the Soho gig to have more rigidity. This will hopefully stand me in good stead for when I flesh it out into a show.
My cat is unaware of all of this. She's never been to a theatre. She thinks I cease to exist the moment I leave the house. This doesn't matter. She gets a restful sleep and I get a warm lap. Win-win. If the temperature decreases my chances of becoming a father, then so be it. I'll save money on babysitting.