It’s blinking nippy out there.
I might venture out later on. Or I may just stay at home in my scarf and slippers, eating biscuits and peering mistrustfully out of the window.
That’s what the cat is doing – minus the slippers.
She does not do the deep and crisp and even. She wants the French windows open, but only so that she can sit on the underfloor heating whilst poking her nose out into the frost and mewling bitterly at the unfairness of life.
She is a fair weather cat, used only to the balmiest of summer breezes, long nights on the piazza sipping anchovy cocktails and eyeing up the birds, enjoying a life of indolent ease.
She is not ready to slip on her thermal vest and hunker down for the long haul.
Her whiskers quiver with utter indignation at the mere thought of stepping outside in this.
If she could speak, it would be Lady Bracknell to a T.