So I’ve got a place to write, a neat little out-of-the-way spot that has enough distraction from the innards of the house, enough peace from the road, and plenty of fresh air. It’s a place where I can see and not be seen, where I can pause and think and random goings on without the incessant tic-toc of the clock on the wall.

In short, it’s nearly ideal. Nearly, because at about five o’clock on a summer’s afternoon, the sun hits that perfect angle to get square in my eyes, roast my face and set the machine on fire. OK, maybe not that bad, but it’s killer for about half an hour before it hits the neighbour’s roofline and shadow gives some blessed relief.

Cosy, secure, quiet. It’s such a nice place to be, I shouldn’t be surprised that the feline member of the household also finds its an ideal spot to rest. I will be writing and she will come over and set up on the chair next to me.

Madame Spr√ľngli von Fuzzibum at her finest

She’s an ideal companion-cat, catpanion if you will, for writing. Once she has settled in, on the chair next to me, she is more than content to ignore every rhetorical question I can throw at her. She snores with content as I bounce ideas off her, and gives silent reassurance that, yes, the character does deserve to contribute to the narrative.

She’s pretty good like that.

What does my head in, though, is when she beats me to the outside space. For some reason, could be that the chair has my scent on it, could be that she’s spiteful because I didn’t give her tuna from my lunch, who can say, she prefers to sit on my seat.

As a pre-writing ritual, I get the vacuum cleaner, put on the upholstery head with the turbo cleaning doover and make several passes over the chair to get all the cat hair off there. That is unless she’s sitting there. In that case, I have to sigh, turn around, and head back inside under her smug gaze. I can’t bring myself to push her off and

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