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| The annual Rob-in-front-of-the-wood-delivery picture. |
Nor is it harvesting the tempting butternut
squash, which we did this week, arranging them on a sunny windowsill to cure (basically
toughen up the skins so they store well over winter)...
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| So pleasing. |
Nor is it being woken up by the sound of
gunfire in the night, as hunters celebrate the start of the hunting season,
which is another thing that happened earlier this week…
(I do not have a picture of a grumpy, pyjama-ed
me being woken up by gunfire. Sorry.)
Nope. The surest sign that the weather is turning
comes from our four cats, who morph from outdoor-loving creatures that refuse to
come home for their dinner because they’re having too much fun eating lizards
into fluffy, fat layabouts who nag us for food the second we walk into a room,
regardless of the time of day.
Picture me sitting at my kitchen table tucking
into a delicious breakfast wrap (courtesy of my one true love, Bake Off Nadiya)
and being greeted with this face…
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| 'I want what YOU'RE having.' |
And cat number four, Merlin, almost just swiped
a chunk of halloumi from the kitchen worktop. Which might be the most first-world-arsehole
sentence I’ve ever written.
So that’s pretty much our life now, every
mealtime, until the cats get used to the change in weather. At least they’re cute. I mean, not cute enough to give them any of my food
(no matter how hard Iggy stares), but still pretty darn cute.
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| Cat bros. |
