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Misha
16 February 2006
My Misha-cat is in hospital again, she’s really ill, and this time the vet is not optimistic; she’s got no better after twenty-four hours on a drip, and if she doesn’t improve by tomorrow, then all the subtexts suggest that she isn’t coming home.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Cleaning, tidying, that sort of thing, I suppose; it’s 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 m’friend Val’s book launch. She’ll make it easy, she always does; but even so, I’d rather it was any other night than this.
Unless Misha gets better through the afternoon, of course. It’s 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.