A Subtle Request

A few weeks ago, on the 5th of July, we came home to find the following subtle request:

Our London had pushed her empty bowl across the floor, and left it right in front of the cupboard we keep her tinned fish in. I wonder what she could have been after?

For London

Funeral Blues
W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.


Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.


The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

We'll always love you Pundy.

Is Something Burning?

We suspect this singe:


On this cat:


Was caused by one of these lights:


Trendy though they may be, it seems that if you have a brain the size of a peanut and a love for heat, heat, glorious heat, halogen lights set at floor level are a little too attractive on a cold winter's morning.

If they hadn't attached themselves to humans cats would long since be extinct. Probably through some accidental fire.