Rain

It is wet. Unrelentingly wet. She Who Controls The Can Opener made a passing aside about living in the Rainy City. Her sarcasm was not appreciated. The fact is, it is summer. The days should be long and warm and my time spent chatting up the neighbourhood's fit young queens. Instead, it is raining. Apart from a brief respite during Wimbledon, we have endured a daily tropical downpour of monsoon-like dimensions. I sit in the back window and watch my territory disappear under mini floods that are deep enough to reach my hips.

I am itching to go out - I need air, exercise and company, as well as patrol my kingdom to stop the chavscum moggies from encroaching. I am bored of sleeping, even though it is a splendid way to pass the time. And I do not care to have the indignity of the tray inflicted upon me. She Who Controls The Can Opener insists there is nothing She can do and that I can go out if I wish. It is alright for Her - she has an umbrella. My pelt will be ruined, ruined I tell you, if I venture out under such conditions. A call to the Met Office surely beckons.