Stan, the cat we adopted back in April, has got his feet firmly tucked under the table. As you can see from this pic, he has full command of the situation, although I'm not sure if he was urging me on, or trying to tell me that he didn't approve ofthat days work. True to his cat nature, he now truly believes that he is the head of the household. Indeed, such is his predilection for ensuring our welfare, he constantly brings us gifts. Now, if the gifts were live mice and birds, as cats usually bring, I would be inclined to believe that he is desperate for us to revert back to cave man status and begin honing our hunting skills to survive in this mad, bad world.  

Alas, no!

Stan is keen to ensure that we are well fed and properly nourished (according to his own interpretation as to our nutritional requirements). Consequently, we have been showered with treats over the last few weeks. Of course as it is, (supposed to be), the season for barbecues, he has taken great delight in bringing us bits of sausage, burger, and copious amounts of bread. He has even taken care to ensure that such delights are well presented. One feast was served up on a bed of three brown leaves, very artfully left on our doorstep.

Not impressed by our rejection of such culinary delights, Stan has now upped his game. On Friday evening my husband arrived home from a day's windsurfing to find the newspaper and greased paper used to serve fish and chips. Not sure where Stan got this from, or how ridiculous he must have looked dragging a full, scrunched up two sheet newspaper up the street. However, he gets full marks for effort. Unfortunately, the newspaper was soggy, the fish had been consumed and the few stale chips and plastic forks didn't exactly inspire hunger.

Of course, this brings me round to the subject of writing, in some convoluted way.

You just never know what fate, life, your muse is going to serve up for you. I have to confess, not much writing has been achieved this week. I have little excuse other than life getting in the way. But this isn't really a valid reason. Writing is part of life, isn't it? If you hold down a full time job would you not go in for a week and simply tell your boss, you didn't feel like it because life was getting in the way? I think not.

So, I write this in full self-chastisement mode and great shame. Life is to be embraced, rather than used an an excuse for not getting on with it. That's what my muse is telling me, as she tuts and rolls her eyes because, just like the fish and chips, you just never know what Stan is going to serve up next!


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