Archie just wandered in and proceeded to throw up on the carpet. I was in midst of signing my tax return and writing a cheque for the accountant. Shouting for P. (cleansing carpets of catsick is her department, disposing of rodent remains mine) I scared Archie into one of the awkward spaces between book towers, so that P. had to perform acrobatics to reach him.
Now, having cleared his stomach of nausea, he's unusually keen to pick a fight with Woody. I'm keen to get back into David Klass's The Braves, which I'm reading for The Scotsman...
