There are cats in my flat.
(To be strictly accurate, there are cats on top of my legs. My left foot has gone to sleep.)
You may recall that I’ve been living alone since I moved into my new flat in April. I made a brief trip down to England at the weekend, and I now live with two eleven-week-old kittens. They are called Kilda and Harris — names that have been much dithered over and finally settled on after learning that there are indeed such things as too much name for small cats and names with too many syllables for me to yell. Kilda is grey, the bigger sister and a wee bit braver when it comes to exploring new places and chases rabbits with her back legs while she’s sleeping and knows how to open doors with her paws. Harris is dark with marmalade bits and a white beard that gives her a look of permanent astonishment, the littler sister and likes to play with shoelaces and to use my knees and the radiators as balance beams. When they chase each other around the house, you might be forgiven for thinking that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are coming. They are Geordie cats by birth but have been safely installed in Glasgow after an epic journey involving a train and a cat crate, and we will soon teach them how to meow in a Scottish accent.