The wrath of Ceiling Cat must be appeaséd

I've been wanting to flood the world with photographs of my magnificent kittens, but thought it might get a bit tedious for the troops. As with exercisey people who go on and on and on and on about how many laps, in what time, with their how-steely triceps, and diety people with their how few inches, or buniony people with their tales of podiatric woe: everyone is interested, to a point, but beyond that point hearing me wax adoring about my kittens is as thrilling as an evening at home with a recording of the Telstra Yellow Pages Recited Live to a Studio Audience by Sol Trujillo.

But trusty ol' Ceiling Cat has given me permission, so here goes. I am kitten-fancier, hear me roar. Roar!

This is lovely Beatrice nesting in the drawer beneath my bookshelf. Could such an angelic animal possibly plunge her hindleg into a freshly deposited mound of kittenpoo and then gallop through the entire house leaving unspeakable gobbets in unreachable places? No. Surely not.


And this is the much beloved Harriet, who somehow managed to winkle her way inside my harp. That is how angelic she is. You can't see her halo, but only because I had to use the flash.

And here Beatrice has shown Harriet the special hidey place in the drawer. What astonishing kittens they are.

In other news, they had their first visit to the vet last week, a reasonably violating series of subcutaneous injections and thermometers up the rectum, sandwiched between two half hour walks in a basket (if someone could undangle my modifiers there, I'd be very grateful). The vet atoned by posting them each a rattly mouse, in separate envelopes addressed to Harriet Harlot and Beatrice Harlot. They now own four mouses between them. Please do not send mice.