Breathing Space

The cat sits on the window ledge, looking into the office when not looking out for prey. The cats hunting leads to contemplative distraction from all things. The garden outside the office shelters all manner of prey, real and imagined, and Bagel and Sam do their best to subsidise their diet. I think they're more succesful than they let on, and have seen Bagel coughing up the odd feather or two. They are my companions at the moment, which suits a romantic ideal: a mad writer and his cats, but does little for romance. Sometimes they remind me of ex-girlfriends. They still come back for a stroke and a cuddle, but shoot off as soon it suits them, leaving me sneezing and cursing my gullibility.

It's been a quiet few days. Playing catch up with all sorts of things, making good progress on the odd secret project. My first photo job went pretty well at the weekend. I felt nervous throughout; worried someone would pull back the curtain and reveal that I wasn't really the wizard of snaps, merely an elevated hobbyist. But I guess having a photo job makes you a photographer by default. The irony, of course, is that the person who got me the job is a much better photographer than I am. Which makes the choice of me as shutterbug a high compliment, one that I tried desperately to live up to, so much that I took nearly 600 pictures over the weekend. But it turned out ok. So it's been quiet, but a contented quiet.