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5 November 2005

Guy Fawkes Night, and itís mad out there: streets full of smoke, like living under an artillery barrage. I canít remember when the west end went this wild.

Thankfully, Misha is half deaf and hasnít really twigged that anything worth noting is going on. For those of you whoíve been asking, sheís getting better, thanks: eating well now (thanks to mífriend Simon providing packets of what she clearly thinks is ambrosia; in fact itís past its sell-by date, but then, so I guess is ambrosia) and bumbling around the house like a good íun.

For those of you whoíve been suggesting that even for a man with a sick cat, there must be life beyond the sick cat: well, yes. Iím sure youíre right. It just doesnít hold much value at the moment. When I say Iím tired and emotional tonight, that is not a metaphor.

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© Chaz Brenchley 2005
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.