It’s my cat’s 7th birthday today. She came into my life in early January, so not even four months ago, but she’s already so entwined with my days, I can’t imagine life without her. Easy to understand why women living alone are always shown with cats. They’re independent and dignified and lovely, without the desperate neediness of dogs. I love dogs too, but there’s no way I want that level of responsibility. Tiggy lets me know in no uncertain terms what she thinks of her daily food offering. She’s wonderful company, almost always nearby, sleeping or washing or contemplating, wherever I am in the house – a very precise and tidy cat. She spends a lot of time sitting at the back door watching squirrels and birds and does want to go out and hunt, but also knows I do not want her to do that.
She is the loveliest cat I’ve ever had, except for my very first cat Wuzoo when I was nine, who looked exactly like her. Thanks to the gods of Facebook for bringing her to my attention when her owner died.
Still sick, achey, runny nose, sore throat — boring, but there you go. I’m working, though – edited a long manuscript yesterday, and then had the treat of watching All the President’s Men again. What a superb film, thrilling, watching great journalists do their vital work for democracy.
Even better, through the Substack of Ian Leslie, a fine British writer who’s also a major Beatles fan, I watched a glorious 40 minute video by another superfan on why Macca is the greatest pop/rock vocalist ever. No question for me, but if you have any doubts, watch this and be gobsmacked. I watched it in bed. My Macca singing to me and my cat nearby, a cup of coffee, a few newspapers and a nice warm computer = it doesn’t get better than that.