Minuit lies upon our bedroom floor, a vision of feline pulchritude. She splays every splayable part of her body. Rolling onto her back, she raises an eyebrow.
"Seriously? I just vacuumed. How can you produce this much hair in 2 hours?"
"Plus, I just brushed you this morning."
"I took a small Siamese worth of cat hair off you."
David wanted the wall-to-wall carpet in the bedroom. You know, for the cushiness under one's feet, for the warmth in the winter, for the monochrome colour. From the instant that carpet went down, Minuit spent her every waking moment rolling on it, leaving cat versions of crime scene outlines all over it. On her back, with her left leg thrust against the wall and front right paw on her ear. On her right side, curled into a little ball - but she must have been dreaming because her tail has left a windshield wiper swath of hair behind - sort a cat hair angel on the carpet. I am this close to shaving her.
You're supposed to live in a house for a year before you make any big changes. I don't think I'll make it. Either I will have to devise a vacuum in a backpack that I can wear at all times when I'm in the bedroom, or I will I rip up the wall-to-wall with my bare hands in a fit of psychotic OCD, before manically installing laminate with a small multicoloured - easy to camouflage cat hair - area rug under the bed that doesn't require vacuuming every 12.3 minutes. Not 100% sure, but I it's just possible that my hormones may have coloured my rationality. I'm going to pour myself a Scotch and see if it comes back.