And they call it kitty love

Tick tock, tick tock. That's the sound of my "biological" clock, but it's not calling for kids. Oh no. Take a look at the little beauty below and you'll see the object of my affection. This ginger poppet was in residence at the William IV pub on Shepherdess Walk last Sunday, when we met up with Clive and Pippa and their respective families for a post-wedding-day pint and lunch. He/she happily basked in the sun on a corner window sill, stretching occasionally and submitting to being scratched behind the ears and cooed over by a demented female (me). Great pub, by the way. Big open room, huge picture of William IV, lovely helpful bar staff, and top chips. Perfect for reading the papers in of a Sunday lunchtime. Check it out if you're near Old Street/Angel.





Back to the kitty love. It's getting worse. I've started furtively reading the online listings for cat shelters back in the UK, hitting ctrl-tab whenever PJ enters the room. "Patches and Charlie have lost their owners and are looking for a warm, friendly home." "Mr Tibbs is an affectionate kitty, with a slight bowel disorder, who needs lots of love and attention." I'll give him lots of love and attention -- bed-wetter or not! I know that this is bad for me. I know that I need to stop. But I can't! They're all so adorable and I want to love them all!

But there are signs that I'm going too far in my yearning for a kitty. PJ pointed out a toy in the shop round the corner that he implied was highly appropriate for me -- Crazy Cat Lady, complete with bad hair, ripped clothing, and 14 cats that you can position around her. A harbinger of things to come? (I hope so!)