Field notes (on cat; on Kathleen)

On Saturday morning I woke up with a hangover and a crick in my neck.

The hangover was entirely my own fault. It is what happens when you drink too much with your father and brothers. (Also you attempt to give the youngest brother all the good advice you wish you'd had when you were seventeen, but had nobody to give it to you, because you were the oldest. He took it in good part.) The crick in the neck happened because, just after I'd staggered into bed at two in the morning, I heard a mewling and a scratching at my bedroom door.

I got up and opened it, and something went whoosh past me. When I got back to the bed I found that Tuppence had taken up residence on my pillow. I spent the rest of the night with my head on the bed next the pillow.

I'm now trying to determine the relative weights of the following factors in my actions:

- alcohol consumed
- desire to get some sleep
- reluctance to be bitten and/or scratched
- chronic soft-heartedness

And also comparing them with my reaction to a situation where it is a human invading my space. Metaphorical space, in this case.