Numerous drafts of my story lie on the floor. Smudge is sitting on the last one, which I attempt to retrieve as I need to check something. He’s unimpressed and doesn’t move, as I have been keeping him awake with my noise and the light. Eventually, he relents and curls up in the tub chair.
It’s after 2.30 am, so I complete my bathroom routine and fall into bed. However, sleep is absent as I can’t get comfortable and thoughts continue to roll around in my head.
At 6.00 am the mantle clock chimes and I gasp and raise my head, disturbed by a weight on my body. Smudge has plopped himself horizontally across my chest. It’s hard to breathe when a 4.5 kg furball has pinned you down. I manage to turn slightly hoping that he’ll slide off, but he clings on with extended claws. ‘Owhh!’ I’m now fully awake and push him off.
In an attempt to ignore my tormenter, I wrap the doona around my body and bury my face into the pillow, but Smudge hasn’t given up and whacks me in the head. I turn around and his face is 30 cm away from mine, his pupils dilated. After a few seconds of eyeballing each other, he looks away and jumps off the bed. Finally, I’m left in peace… but later I’m woken by a loud, rumbling sound. There are workmen outside operating an excavating machine and Smudge is back on the bed again.