It's dull, grey and dreary here, after a night of ferocious rain. All that I have left to do before I go on holiday is dull, grey and dreary stuff like checking tyre pressures, filling up with petrol, bathing the dog, who smells appalling (how? why? she lives a small, citified, moderately sanitary life amidst soft furnishings and regularly-washed bedding, and has nothing vile to roll in) and packing. How I hate packing; it upsets the team, who strike attitudes of deepest despair at the first glimpse of a suitcase. They know that something is up, since the ironing board made one of its rare appearances yesterday, and are looking pathetic and martyred already, even though the suitcase is still wherever I last put it. (Note to self: find suitcase.)
The sudden extravagant outbursts of affection on my part might also be a giveaway, as I contemplate leaving them and their funny little ways/medication regime/ever-changing food preferences to the sainted Sandra and House Sitting Boy. Being clutched impulsively to your human's bosom as she tells you, in choked emotional tones, what a lovely dear old chap you are, yes you are, is enough to send any self-respecting geriatric cat into a state of alarm and refuse to eat anything put in front you for the rest of the day.
The next round of cats who come to live with me (I could never pretend to own a cat, as such; I know my place) will be trained to travel well and cheerfully in the car and will accompany me everywhere on holiday. Annie suggests that they might also be trained up to make all the holiday arrangements too. Now that would make for an interesting holiday brochure.