Any twinge of regret that I hadn't signed on for Left Coast Crime this year has been washed away completely by the thorough reports of John Rickards on his blog. Fire alarms, killer bathtubs, being locked outside the hotel room and the author's bender to end all benders.
Until Harrogate Crime Festival anyway. Last year there were no such fire alarm shenanigans and I'm sure we'll all be a well-behaved bundle of politeness and respectability this year too. I mean, it wasn't me that finally went to bed Saturday night at, um what was it? 6:30 am Sunday? Yes, that seems about right.
But I'm one of those sympathetic types who endures the madness vicariously. Except I didn't plan for this.
You see, I sleep on the left side of the bed. I don't know why, exactly. But that's the side I found myself on when I got married.
Yesterday morning, toasty warm beneath a sheet, two comforters, a duvet and my favourite blanket. In that sort of pre-awake sleep you get too after a decent night's rest, but you still need a bit more. Part of your brain's kicked in, because it's time for the usual 4:30 am wake-up call, but you've dismissed it because - as you remind yourself - it's Saturday. God made Saturday for sleeping in, and for once you don't have anything early morning in the city that requires you to drag your butt out of bed and face the morning too early.
And then you feel it. A spot of warmth. Sticky, wet, but warm. Right over your knees.
And the synopsis are really firing up now. What on earth could be pouring over my legs at 4:45 am?
And then, of course, it registers. That there's something on my legs. Something short, sweet and apparently very horny.
So my lazy Saturday morning was disrupted by Skittles, spraying the bed all the way through all those sheets, his...scent now soaking into my skin.
Now, I had an official city-trip emergency. There was no way our standard washing machine was going to handle the duvet.
We had to pack everything up and go to a laundromat with the front loaders for 8 am, before they got too busy.
On a purely psychological note, I'm not sure how to interpret Skittles' choice to spray me. He's a Daddy's cat, through and through. Runs down the hall when he hears Kevin come in the outer door every afternoon, jumps onto his shoulder, insists on supervising Kevin at work in his office - follows him everywhere. Even likes to lie on the back of the toilet when it's in use.
The kind of cat you need to warn strangers about.
The kind of cat that's going to see a big pair of veterinary scissors really, really soon.
Now, here's some advice for you.
From a strictly mathematical viewpoint it goes like this:
What makes 100%? What does it mean to give MORE than 100%? Ever
wonder about those people who say the are giving more than 100%? We
have all been to those meetings where someone wants you to give over
100%. How about achieving 103%? What makes up 100% in life?
Here’s a little mathematical formula that might help you answer these
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26
AND, look how far ass kissing will take you.
So, one can then conclude with mathematical certainty that While Hard work
and knowledge will get you close, and Attitude will get you there, Bullshit and Ass kissing will put you over the top.
I know you're all choking back the snickers, thinking how funny it is that Sandra's sweet little kitten sprayed her.
But "Laughing" only gets you 79%.
And a woman sprayed should not be tested!