Saturday morning 7am. I’m in bed, not sleeping, but not awake either.
My cat is sharing my pillow, as usual. She’s also in the process of transitioning from slumberland to the real world.
Her tail is the first to get up and “take a peek “to see if the sun is up.
The tail decides it’s too early and makes itself comfortable again on my face. The soft tickling sensation across my cheeks is so comforting.
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I’m just slightly aware of the rhythmic purring, the sound of peace.
My legs stretch out involuntarily and I hear myself groaning softly. My subconscious alarm clock starts playing beautiful music.
I can only vaguely hear it: Cat Stevens telling me morning has broken.
Next moment the air raid siren goes off. The sound penetrates every fibre of my body and I can feel all 35 of my working brain cells vibrating.
The cat’s reaction time is faster than mine. In a millisecond she has puffed herself to twice her size.
The tail looks like a squirrel’s and she tattoos two vicious looking Chinese characters on my bare chest with her claws as she leaps onto the dressing table.
As she lands, she knocks over a bottle of perfume.
The bottle spins and I’m too late to save the perfume. It crashes onto the tiles and the scent of Chanel is overwhelming.
Thank goodness the bottle was just about empty. There’s blood on the floor. I scan the cat.
She looks fine. Then I notice my tattoos are bleeding.
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The siren has died down, but is replaced by a cacophony of screaming, shouting and whistling. Now, I’m more alert than a soldier heading into combat.
Then, reality. The noise comes from across the road. I draw the curtains. It’s Easter Weekend and the school opposite my house is having its annual sports festival.
The siren signalled the start of the first matches for the day. I open the door for my cat and see my neighbour outside, too.
He has a huge coffee stain on his shirt.
