Francois has essentially now, moved out. He has been popping back occasionally for food and then scooting off again. Yesterday his fur had wafts of washing powder and firesides. His eyes were wide and his thoughts, blinkered. This cat has flown. We are considering ways of forcing him to love us again. If he ever did.
I sobbed to Marley and Me yesterday. I have been reduced to crying at Jennifer Aniston films. Francois, if you’re reading this (in your new home), come back. We raised you as our ginger tiger. Charlie left you some of his mackerel from his sandwich this morning. It is still there. I’m going to remove it. Do you even still like mackerel? Pork chop, you are missed.
Like a knife.