It's five past three. Sixty-four eyes look at me. No. Sixty-two. Not Matthew. He hasn't learnt to read my face. He's got digital. A disgrace! I reach to ten.
The china is in smithereens before our tea has even brewed but it hardly matters. Minotaur is half bull and a little clumsy but bigger things have been shattered,
The seagulls are doing their dance again – Wings clasped to their sides, they stare up the street. Up and down, up and down, go their knobbly pink knees;
Teach me the language of Cat; the slow-motion blink, that crystal stare, a tight-lipped purr and a wide-mouthed hiss. Let me walk with a saunter, nose in the air.