The dread paw of oppression

What it lacks in execution it makes up for in essential truth.

3.30am

I have insomnia thanks to partying neighbours and I think that bringing the cats into the bedroom may help me get back to sleep.

The fantasy: the cats curl up on the bed, purr and we all drop off to sleep in a cuddly heap.

The reality: Mits starts a noisy pedicure with much slurping and smacking of the lips. Rosa attacks Mits, attacks me, bites me, climbs into the wastepaper bin, drags out a plastic bag and starts eating it (with much slurping and smacking of the lips), jumps from the bedside cabinet to the chest of drawers and back again repeatedly, shifting the glass top of the bedside cabinet closer and closer to my head until I realise, befuddled, that if she does this again I risk being beheaded. She stops for a bit, attacks me again, returns to the bin. I readjust the glass top.

At 5.30 I decide to get up and turn off the alarm clock. Immediately everyone quietens down, I drop off and we all oversleep severely.

This is why the cats sleep in the kitchen normally.