Of Mice And Men.

Well, this week I've followed my normal summer routines with few interruptions. I make sure I'm in the kitchen for breakfast at 6 o'clock. Pop out for a quick 'blute in the nearest dig-able flower bed and nip straight back for a paw and face wash on the dining room table before settling down on the back of the settee for a long paw stretching zzzz. The humans do their morning things and go off round the corner in their tin box wheelie things. I think they go round the corner and, when just out of sight, they park up and spend the day eating sandwiches until 5 o'clock just to make us cats think they've got something important to do.
Cats are well aware of this behaviour because we too always pretend to be doing something vitally important if a human happens to spot us in someones front garden even though we were really just mooching about aimlessly.
At around 2 o'clock, if there's no-one at home to badger for a meal, I stumble back outside and amble round to the front door flower box, cuddle up with Mr. Passion flower and await someones return. I never sleep in the flower box in the mornings for, though it's a sunny spot sheltered from the wind and rain, I'm very wary of Mr Postman who scrunches up the drive with disgustingly hairy bare legs and flings fistfuls of paper through our letter box. I fear he may even have the audacity to speak to me or worse, touch me! I don't think he knows his place in the pecking order of life according to the wisdom of the ancient Egyptian Sphinx.
Whilst lolling around with Mr Passion flower, I often make mental notes about who or which wheelie box passes down the lane; just part of my security role.
As I wait, I ponder such things as why humans need anti-wrinkle cream for those deep set wrinkles. Because they're worth it? Pah! I've got plenty of wrinkles of course, but no-one knows. A furry face. It's the best answer, me thinks. Why doesn't Mr L'Oreal of Paris bring out Furry Face Cream? Bound to work every time.
Then there's Pussy Crunchy Bits shaped like fish, bones or stars. Well, why not mouse, rabbit or birdie shapes? Or I might wonder if they make alphabet soup in Arabic or Chinese. Needless to say, these are questions which continue to mystify.
When one of my humans eventually turns up, I hurriedly leap from the box lest they smash into the house then, reassuming my usual cool demeanour, saunter into the kitchen for tea.
Time for another snooze in the garden until dusk. Who'd want to be a human!