The Pussycat, The Fox and The Old Lady

Will be in and out and off and on. All on account of trifling matters.
These piddling matters taking the form of sorting out the boys, sharpening crucial instruments, flouncing items of allure against me lithe and old body, making pastry, writing epic poems of epic proportions, counting me money, and trudging about the loft on me hands and knees looking for chipped ornaments.
Now all those things are worth getting out of bed for but......
At four a.m I was extricating Monty from the lining of the bedroom curtains, his interest in the great outdoors being invoked by the raucous barking of foxes in me back garden. There I was a solitary female clad in a nightie of allure, sweating buckets because I'd left the electric blanket on full power and dreaming a nasty vicious dream about miniature pigs on aeroplanes, when I'm awakened by that no good scallywag ripping me dusty curtains to bits. Bless him.

So being the stupid old crow I am, I robotically and blindly, (because me glasses were in the drawer and the drawer was stuck) got out of bed and carefully removed him from between the lining and magnificent folds of me mustard and mint floral curtains. (£10.99 Oxfam) thus allowing him to clamber up onto the windowsill of me tiny bedroom and stare intensely into the beautiful blackness of a postage stamp garden.
Then I went back to bed.
But not for long.
At just after six, his bottom was in my face.
Being stretched out on top of me, he reminded me of a luxurious draught excluder, only this draught excluder was snoring.
And as I squinted at his hairy arse I wondered about getting a dog...
See you later