Knackered

I want my bed. I am knackered.

In a perfect world, my bed would be all mine, and not full of cat hair. In a perfect world, I would wake up to a beautiful sunny day and a steaming cup of tea every morning. With the newspaper and hot buttered toast and jam to follow.

Instead, I wake up with to a snoring Baron, who has nicked most of the quilt and wrapped himself up in it, and who has taken over most of the bed leaving me relegated to the far left hand side. Not that I have use of my pillow either, since his arm is usually under it, and Willow is taking up 90% of it to snooze.

I don't need an alarm clock. I have Frankie. Every morning without fail he comes and walks up and down me until give up on sleep and make a fuss of him. Then he realises he doesn't want fuss, but would prefer his breakfast and goes downstairs to sulk until I bother to haul my arse out of bed and feed the cats.

(Of course, as soon as I get downstairs he starts to cry to go into the conservatory. Then he cries because he wants to go back into the kitchen and eat the breakfast I have put out, but Lila is in the way. There is no pleasing some cats around here.)

Quite frequently this happens at 5AM.

And he never brings me a cup of tea either.