I did not manage to sleep my full required 8 hours 45 minutes (plus 3 x 5 minutes snoozes) last night because a while back, in a fleeting moment of madness, I bought The Daughter a birthday present in shape, form and appetite of Cat. And so while I was in the throes of having to choose between Ewan McGregor on the back of a motorcycle in deepest Africa or Jake Gyllenhall in a steamy tent in Antarctica (Discovery Channel has no idea what its new advert is doing to my blood pressure), Cat began rhythmically clawing at my face and meowing at a decibel above the music that plays inside nightclubs. Of course, given my world-renowned penchant for sleep (so keenly developed that it has influenced The Daughter to rouse no earlier than a cool 8.45 on weekends), I attempted to swat Cat while simultaneously chastising him as though I were a sailor (Fuck off you stupid spawn of satan, were the words I used, if I remember correctly).
But Cat has an appetite that if mimicked by yours truly would require a full eight of exercise to dispel. He needed food. In a big way. And so I was implored upon by his bordering-on-downright-violent behaviour that, if left too long, could have resulted in a genuine need for facial reconstructive surgery, to roll my body out of bed, land on hands and knees, spend a good three minutes attempting to straighten out and then totter through to the kitchen.
I'm a bit of a robot in the mornings. Usually, after having hit snooze forty-seven times, I open my eyes, realise the time, say, "Oh fuck," roll out of bed, make for kitchen, trip over Cat, land head first on floor/bathroom door/cupboard door/dressing table (yelp, "Fuck,") stumble into kitchen, lift kettle, replace kettle, switch kettle on, prepare tea, sip tea, open eyes. I do all of that without actually realising I'm awake. So, when I found myself in kitchen at ungodly hour this morning, I can honestly admit to not having been in complete control of my body.
With the first sip of tea down, I was far more mentally able to assist Cat in desired consumption of food. I also, found, however, that after having first sip of said tea, I was in no position to attempt re-enter arousing dream with Jake Gyllenhall and would rather make hay while the sun shone (or rain poured, as it was) and capitalise on some quiet Pant time.
I inserted Regina Spektor into the CD player, drew a dreamily deep hot bath. I even shaved my legs (God alone knows what for - I'd grown quite attached to the winter coat and felt more naked than I've felt in ages as I emerged from bath). And then I attempted to dress.
Rain has stopped. Must dress in outfit suitable for slightly warm but damp but may get warm but oh God what the sam hell am I going to wear? Put black pants and white vest on. Stand sideways. Stomach protuding as though pregnant. Derobe. Dress in brown summery Grecian dress. Have vest underneath. Boobs look saggy (when did they get like this?). Stomach looks a millimetre bigger. Take off vest. Put on bra. Boobs look too big. Take off bra and dress. Redress in vest. Put on white skinnys. Arse looks enormous. Take off white skinnys. Decide will wear boots. Dress in tights and boots and dress. Arse sticks out like shelf and feet are so warm feel onset of menopausal flush. Undress entirely. Stand naked in front of cupboard and whinge aloud about not owning any clothes. Attempt creativity and pull out vast array of dresses from three seasons ago. Look fat/ugly/too thin (in the preggie one)/totally uncool/too teacherly in all. Find black pants and white vest. Think look fabulous. Although stomach is protuding. Don't care. Check time. Scream, 'Fuck.'