You Pretty Things

It has been a long exhausting week, full of emotional storm clouds and disgraced cats. Lulu and Francy have both been bad little kittens, although one would never know it by the peaceful bundle of mixed ginger and tawny fur snoozing on the sofa next to me. The lights are dim, I have a cup of ginger tea and a bowl of warm strawberry cake topped with cream that has been whipped into a soft slouch on the copper coffee table. My boots are off, and to my exquisite pleasure, you are massaging my feet, your fingers pulling each toe firmly and smoothing my shins. I’m wearing my espresso brown velveteen 13-button sailor pants with equestrian buttons. The velveteen nap is worn thin at the knees, and my thin white singlet is torn and limp from an earlier romp. David Bowie is crooning in the background, and you are mine.
“Wake up you sleepy head,
Put on some clothes, shake up your bed,
Put another log on the fire for me,
I’ve made some breakfast and coffee,
I look out my window what do I see,
A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me,
All the nightmares came today,
And it looks as though they’re here to stay”
(By David Bowie)