mostly david ephgrave

This morning, I was briefly worried a cat would play with my wee. I should explain this statement, before you think I’m an oddball. I’m cat-sitting for a neighbour this week, who owns two of the grumpiest-looking, yet sweetest cats I’ve seen. I’ve become this friend’s go-to person for feline-feeding, which suits me, as I like any excuse to spend time with my favourite type of animal, and it suits her, as she’s pleased to have someone who’ll keep them company, rather than just throwing a handful of cat-biscuits into a bowl and then sodding off. Every time I arrive at her flat, one of the cats runs straight for the bathroom and leaps onto the toilet cistern, so she can playfully bat at the water from the tap next to it, should a inferior human accomplice such as me be kind enough to switch it on. I always do, because I’m soft. The downside to my friend’s flat, however, is a distinct lack of doors. So, when I needed the loo this morning, I faced a quandary. I knew that as s...