Carole smashed a bowl this morning, so breakfast for four is completely off tge menu at our house now.
I don’t know why she did it. Some sort of rebellion against the washing up being left overnight maybe, or she just really disliked the bowl. Or she just wanted to create some drama at an ungodly hour of the morning.
She swept it up. And I asked her where she’d done it so I could avoid, hopefully, shards of pottery embedding themselves in my feet. And so I could hoover up any remaining particles.
She went to work, I fell back to sleep.
I woke up a little later to a furry face nuzzling me. No, not nuzzling. Nutting. Full-on physical assault from a cat. And pawing. And meowing. And biting. I couldn’t understand why.
I shooed her away and nodded off again. Only to be woken up in the same way.
It was, this time around, closer to an acceptible time to hoover although why we show any regard to the neighbours when it comes to noise I don’t know.
I go downstairs.
I discover the reason Peppa has been so eager to get me out of bed.
“Just incase,” Carole had removed and emptied Peppa’s food bowl. I admire her care – no-one wants to go to the vets with a cat that’s eaten a bowl.
But my sleep would have loved it if the bowl had been refilled and returned.
Instead, I was physically bullied by a cat.