16 February 2006
My Misha-cat is in hospital again, sheís really ill, and this time the vet is not optimistic; sheís got no better after twenty-four hours on a drip, and if she doesnít improve by tomorrow, then all the subtexts suggest that she isnít coming home.
I donít know what to do with myself. Cleaning, tidying, that sort of thing, I suppose; itís times like these that I regret there is no manual element to being a novelist, because I need physical occupation that demands no mental engagement whatsoever.
And I have to go out tonight and be jolly and supportive and professional all three, at mífriend Valís book launch. Sheíll make it easy, she always does; but even so, Iíd rather it was any other night than this.
Unless Misha gets better through the afternoon, of course. Itís always possible.
© Chaz Brenchley 2006
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.