7am on Sunday after a pretty hard Saturday night and we're going at the job in hand pretty well.

We are in the zone, when the phone rings and, as you'd expect, we leave it.

Concentration broken, the moment dissipated, we struggle to recapture what we had only minutes before, then the phone rings again, then again. When a phone goes that many times, at that ungodly hour of that godly day, you'd best know where your knee-length black dress is.

But no, nothing as sombre as that.

The news, this Sunday, is about a cat. I lay there listening to a panic-laden conversation taking place between exes who still share feline feelings for animals…

It’s the death of innocence for the intentional wayfarer slash tourist lying naked waiting for the conversation to end and the act to reconvene. Then realizing that the sex wasn't going to get jump-started anyhow because a cat on a hot tin roof, in some suburban backyard, is obviously going to rule this fur ball of a theological morning.

The exes are discussing rock throwing: abseiling, mace, hose pipes, the fire brigade, pet food et al. Mine is handling her end with level-headedness; all I can hear from the other is shrieking and I believe momentarily, that the cat trapped on the ex's neighbour's roof by a posse of uglier hellcats, is actually on the phone itself.

I'm laying in a lesbian cliché. Let's face it, if the dog was up on the roof then fair enough, but what's the big head-shrinking deal about a cat being up on a roof? Cat's have been up on roofs since roofs were first invented. In the Serengeti it's common to wake up and find a lion sunbathing on your, or, your neighbour's roof.  

I go get coffee, sit outside and watch some other cat stalking a tweety pie bird. Nature in all of its beauty three-floors below me. If I had a BB-gun I could pop a cap in that pussy's arse from up here - no problems…

I go back to the bedroom and make catty bedroom eyes, but alas, the cat people and their furry business have already stolen my lover's mind away for the remains of today.

What next I wonder, Andrew Lloyd Webber calling collect to discuss a lesbian version of Cats? A flea bath?

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