I should have suspected when I saw the cat being ill.
Despite my daughter’s cats returning home each morning with eviscerated portions of the local wildlife hanging from their teeth, the older one always prowls the kitchen after I come home from work and prepare my dinner, and resolutely refuses to get out from under my feet until I’ve given her something from the fridge on top of her standard rations.
As usual last evening I pondered whether to nudge her away with my shoe or give her something. And as usual, cowardice prevailed and gave her a slice of ham destined for my evening sandwich. I should have put two and two together a couple of hours later when she began making that ominous sound all cat lovers know, immediately preceding a huge mess on the best carpet or bed in the house.
Suffice to say, last night was a very long one, and for the first time since I contracted Scarlet fever last year and was ordered to stay away from work for a couple of days since about half of the entire workforce appears to be pregnant, I have not taken another day off.
“New job interview? A day at the track?” No one in the office would believe that I was actually ill and needed to go home an hour after arriving this morning.
So now I find myself with nothing to do. I may as well get on with a bit of marketing. Smashwords has provided me with the usual plethora of free downloads of my new novel and Amazon it’s usual sparse sale figures. My new Porsche is as far away as ever.
I just have to keep away from the cat, at this moment spearing me with venomous looks, which will no doubt disappear if I even venture in the vicinity of the fridge.