I don't care if it is 3°C outside. I want to go out.
Lynettea isn't listening. She only wants to pat and cuddle a quiet me.
I jump on the shelves, then on the books, then up to the pelmet over the blinds. Way up high, as we live in a little old house built in 1879.
'Naughty cat!' says Lynettea. 'I can't bear to watch.'
She goes out to feed the fish - who are still lurking under the weeds.
Then I come down. She doesn't realize how athletic I am now. I have been listening to the news from the Commonwealth Games and I am in full training mode.
Stretch, streeeech. From the windowsill I reach up through the Venetian blinds, which have been hooked up high out of my way.
More cries of 'don't do that, Sasha!' and 'naughty cat! Naughty cat!'.
Now are we going out?