TALKING TO MY CATS (and feeling old).

I talk to myself.

I make out I'm talking to my cats and I suppose in essence, I really am.

But they can't hear me.
They can, but they don't fully understand.

They comprehend a few words, but a lot of the socio-economic terminology or philosophical idioms are largely lost on them.

I talk to myself.

I have actual conversations with one of my cats where I get all demonstrative, and spell-out words phonetically so that she might reply.

I often find myself laughing at myself thinking how stupid myself has become.

The cat smiles at me.
(With her eyes).

After I've cleaned up the daily litter mess, we often settle down to a Radio 4 play or a wireless documentary on depleting fish stocks.

I'm never sure if either of the cats are totally content with my listening, but the odd cuddle and a drawn-out purr often quell the paranoia in my mental backyard.

When I turn out the lights, Pig buries herself into my broken and twisted torso.
Trousers checks all the locks on the doors, then howls at the moon passionately.
Me & Pig chuckle under the duvet, so that Trousers can't hear us!

We are getting old.
I sometimes talk to myself.
I'm doing it now.

All is well.