A friend dropped by for lunch. We were yakking on about something or other of enormous interest and importance. Yak, yak, yak, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb we went while I made coffee and he leaned on the kitchen counter.
Meanwhile there was a background noise of which we were both, it subsequently transpired, subliminally aware without giving it sufficient consideration. A sort of viscous wet slapping noise. Suddenly there was a piercing scream.
Ok, I admit it, it was me. But tell me what other reaction would be appropriate when realising that the insistent slurping noise was the cat licking the custard out of the pastéis de nata we were supposed to have for pudding.
An affirmation. About the cat and his dietary proclivities. Which will, if left unchecked, no doubt lead to more phat than the vet would feel appropriate for an oriental breed to have about its belly.
I ceased worrying about my belly a very long time ago. And luckily the vet doesn’t weight me each time I go there, plot the numbers and print out a graph to demonstrate its increase.