For those of you who don’t know I have two cats. They are sisters and I am not a chick lit cliché. Well, 80 more pairs of shoes and then I can be a chick lit cliché. Actually I only own around 7-9 pairs of shoes but 6-8 pairs of these have heels of more than 3 inches. Being as I am 5’10 and have been taller than or as tall as most boys since I was 9, I don’t often wear heels. Except in the house and if I am going out for dinner alone. OK fine.  I am a chick lit cliché.

So at least 7-9 pairs of shoes and yet I seem to insist on wearing a disintegrating pair of zip-up Prada boots. That no longer fit properly.  No seriously. Unless I am wearing flats or running shoes – ancient Prada boots.

After a couple of cocktails, I couldn’t help but wonder what in the hell I was doing speaking to the bulimic cat in a damn near perfect David Niven voice. I can almost do an American accent when I have had one too many; can nail a London accent if I concentrate but when speaking to the cats I can only do David Niven. What? Yes. Bulimic. The skinny one is bulimic, smokes 40 Marlboro light a day and will only read Vogue, Vanity Fair and Tatler. The other one has a heart murmur;  short, bandy legs and is autistic and incontinent. The three of us are very happy. But rarely go out. Or entertain visitors.

I should also tell you that the window I look out of from my desk looks onto a park and a full treeline of … trees. It has just rained and the greenness outside my window is almost tangible.