With no ark in sight, it has been raining incessantly since early morning, the sky incandescent and cacophonous. The thunder both rolls and cracks, as if it can't make up its mind. The cats are startled by each flash and bang, but a subsequent look in my direction returns them to the necessary and unending business of napping; I'm here, so that's alright then. The three windows in the room are all stuck open a few inches, which has given half the room a semi-permanent sprinkling of fairy dew, which in turn has had the unfortunate consequence of reactivating the congealed grime on the floor, masking the original stink of the room with one even more noisome.The deluge is also doing something worrisome to the plumbing; I can hear ominous groans and gurgles through the wall. Outside I can hear two men arguing at a volume that defeats the thunder. They sound like they are by the garbage cans, which means the are being heavily rained upon. I think I recognize one of the fat-men; "It was only a cup of water, ONLY A CUP OF F&#KING WATER!". The other yells back, almost but not quite as strongly, "but it wasn't on the CHAIR!". "BUT it was only a F&#KING STUPID CUP of WATER!", the fat-man pleads, his rage, unlike the storm's, beginning to die a little.
I, for one, believe him; it probably was only a cup of f&#king water.
The Inn of Infinite Sadness, or alternatively, Smudge and Hobbes' Traumatising Transcendental Transatlantic Trip. Being the adventures of two very large, unwillingly peripatetic, half-Bengal cats and their owner (of rather similar description) as they prepare to leave the North American continent in search of a new life in their (the cats, not the owner) ancestral homeland of Aneda. Sigh, what I won't do for a decent cup of tea.
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