So the cat gave birth in the middle of the night, not in the carefully doctored cardboard box complete with three cosy layers of blankets, but in the middle of my wardrobe on a pile of jeans. I think the white J Brands took the worst of it.
Got to say, increasingly I'm thinking I might prefer to be a cat. No labour pains to speak of just a bit of muffled mewling around 4 am. No screaming for an epidural, no midwife and husband locking horrified eyes at each successive primeval roar, no husband passed out on the hospital floor. But I digress. The cat was quiet, elegant and dignified throughout. Now she's in a blissed out baby moon, purring like a Harley Davidson while she curls four paws round her four kittens, already a better mother than I am. I've been suspicious for a while now that actually the cat has a nicer life than all of us put together, snoozing on sun-soaked windowsills, sprawled out next to the boiler, whipping out to flatten the odd mouse then back for more of the same. Jealous of the cat? A new and unexpected existential crisis seems to have taken hold. Oh well, at least I didn't have to eat the afterbirth.