Monday, 16 September 2013
Crazy cat lady
This weekend I had a sudden realisation. It happened at about 14:00 on Saturday afternoon, when I willingly chose to leave the warm confines of my flat, walked downstairs in my pjs and over-sized cardi, and out onto the street to see if I could see my neighbour's cat. I stood on the pavement for a while, looking like a complete bare-footed hobo, until I realised that my other neighbour was sitting in his car staring at me like I was a poorly-dressed lunatic. After one final check for the cat, I calmly turned around, walked back indoors, went upstairs and into my flat... and realised that I am, in fact, a crazy cat lady.
I always thought that this was a domain solely reserved for old, lonely women who wore big, fluffy jerseys covered in hair and had no problem with their homes (or themselves) smelling like cat pee. I am not old or lonely, and I certainly have far more regard for my wardrobe than to ever let it become irreparably hair-encrusted. But I do like cats. A lot. Like my-vocal-range-increases-in-decibel-whenever-I'm-near-them a lot. I've taken to wandering aimlessly around the neighbourhood searching for unsuspecting kitties to cuddle. I buy cat food (even though I don't own a cat) on the off chance I have a whiskered-visitor. I jump at the opportunity to visit someone if I know they have a cat (yes, I'm using you, deal with it). And, just this morning, I found myself contemplating starting a "Cats" Pinterest board.
It's official: I'm doomed.