This hornswaggling landlubber beside me goes by the name of George. Himself told me that he’s the new Cabin Boy and that I should look after him.
It was bad enough when George just sat on the windowsill ‘inspiring’ Himself to write (my job, surely) but when he insinuated his sorry carcass under the bedclothes the other night, I decided to forego my usual place of honour on the counterpane and huffed off to sleep downstairs instead.
I thought Himself would get the hint, but apparently not because the next day he posed us side-by-side on the sofa for a chummy BFF photo. I think my look says it all, don’t you? In fact, I was so deeply unimpressed with the whole business that half an hour later I took my revenge on one of His socks.
This time, I’m glad to say, Himself realised my displeasure at the presence of this fake-fur interloper. George was duly returned to the windowsill and I’m back to sleeping on the bed.
If I find him there again he’ll be shark bait, me hearties.
Let me make it quite clear that I wasn’t best pleased when Himself took this picture of me in the bath. I don’t mind bath time at all and happily jump in when I’m muddy for a warm shower and shampoo, but as you can probably see I’m actually quite clean.
Let me explain.
Storms Ciara and Dennis have been chucking it down for days, seriously reducing the opportunity for decent walks. This afternoon, I was so bored that I joined Himself on the bed for a snooze, only to be woken up by strange noises in the sky. Himself said they were thunder and nothing to be worried about, but what does he know? It could just as well have been the four horsemen of the apocalypse warming up for Armageddon.
As a precautionary measure I abandoned the bed in favour of the bathroom. If the End of Days was coming, it seemed very sensible to surround myself with the protection of enamelled cast iron rather than a flimsy woollen blanket. Having shown the way, I waited for Himself to join me behind the shower curtain. Instead of which he almost fell over laughing.
‘When the going gets tough,’ he chortled. ‘The tough hide in the bathtub.’
Captain Midnight here, Companion of the Bedchamber.
Which is a pretty tough job, especially when your human fancies himself as a writer. Most sensible people work during the day and sleep at night, but apparently Himself has to follow the muse, whatever that means. I can tell you that it involves sitting with a constipated look on his face in front of a blank screen, tapping aimlessly at the keyboard during the hours of darkness and crashing out on the office sofa-bed once the sun gets up.
I have tried to explain that the most productive writers get up early in the morning and crack on for a few hours until about mid-day, when they invariably go for a long walk with their canine companion, but he doesn’t listen to me. Consequently, I have to hang around all night offering moral support, and then lollop on the bed with my circadian rhythms all to cock while he gets some shut-eye.
Of course, it’s my job to make him feel alright, but to paraphrase the immortal Lennon and McCartney, I’ve been working like a dog when I should have been sleeping like a log. I think I’ll wake him up soon to make my breakfast.