Four new paw pads and a hole in my ear repaired. At last. I've been on the waiting list for months and had been bumped several times for not very good reasons. I like to think that I am a vitally important member of this household so I was a bit upset that my health and welfare wasn't more highly thought of. I'm not bitter. But next time she has a migraine I might be looking for an orchestra of car alarms and pneumatic drills to play right outside the flat.
No. I'm really not bitter. When she couldn't finish the sewing last night she did wrap me in my blankie so I didn't lose any fluff. Then this morning we sat in the sunshine and listened to some James Bond radio play while she finished the sewing up.
Don't like James Bond much. Oh, it's all entertaining enough - the films and that - but Bond himself - he's not what you'd call a deep character. Not much to say for himself. All that manlier than manly butchness. He's just trying too hard - isn't he? And shouldn't that martini be stirred not shaken? He's no Richard Hannay.
Or The Saint.
Or Harry Lime - ok - he did come to a bad end and he was a completely sleazy bastard but still - I'd give my ears to sound as smooth as old Harry in his pre-Vienna adventures. Maybe I'm biased. I think I do look a bit like a young Orson Wells. In a certain light. And from a certain angle. Possibly. Maybe not.
