28 April 2012
Dead-eyed, he paws the cottage's oak parlour door. Four mews erupt from his neck, a bloodclot clambering further through his heartstrings with each one. He tips, lists, tumbles, stays.
"Get over it, it's only a cat," says the ombudsman, and with that we finish our Bloody Marys and hop in a taxi to Twickenham.
"Bloody thing stank the place out anyway."
She Fed It Pizza • Opuss № I