Cat sitting.

I’ve cleaned the flat, washed up, am ready to cycle into the city to sit among other people, hunt down the best coffee, gather a few market-fresh vegetables and design ideas.  Out of the bedroom window I see a cat, sitting, perfectly balanced, on top of the neighbours’ gate, at ease, ignoring dogs and noisy children.

In the café,  layers of conversations and human preoccupations: “Theresa May…”, “Jeremy Corbyn .. “, “I used to stand on a rock,  taking off one item of clothing…”, “mummyyyy!” (Very loud), “do you want some cake? “,  “the bus is late again…”, “Brexit. ..”, “I was joking when I said. .”

A tired toddler whines and squeals on a note that makes my ears hurt.

I keep thinking of that cat.