Sid-rep: Tues

Sid has now been here for just over a week. He has started to explore, although Outside is still a bit big and he is wary of it. Yesterday, on my way to work, I said to T: 'He's on the stairs. I think he's about to go onto the bookcase - you know that pile of books that's standing on it? Well, if you hear a - ' CRASH! Indeed.

Last night we played 'bashing people' through the bannisters, that well-known form of feline amusement. When I'd had enough and was en route to bed, the Rottweiler took up position at the top of the stairs. I came out of the bathroom to find Sid pouncing on her feet. She has been desperate to play with him all week - she follows him about, meeping and wagging her stump of a tail. So last night was fun, according to her. Sid caught her with a claw and she barked, but she didn't snap and Sid stood his ground. He's a bold little cat.

Could have done without the overturned litter tray this morning, however. I think one of the dogs skidded into it. You haven't lived until you've had to pick kitty litter out of the top of a skirting board. It looked as though someone had thrown a grenade into it.

St Valentine

St Valentine was beheaded, at least in some versions of his legend. Some people just act as though they've been.

Actually, Glastonbury, home of the esoteric, has markedly failed on the V-Day front. I had some difficulty finding a card for T (we don't sell them, and anyway, giving one's co-director a card from the stock is somewhat tacky). I went to the local salon this afternoon in an attempt to improve my appearance before actually going somewhere else (see below). One of the women there is spending tomorrow night at college, as her husband is a lorry driver and won't be home. The other staff member was overheard saying to her daughter 'Oh, God, is it? I forgot. Go out and get your dad a card from me.'

Meanwhile, I have to go up to Yorkshire tomorrow to give a writing-related talk. We are taking advantage of the local hotel's V-Day offer and going out to dinner on Friday instead, with memories of accidentally doing so last year - we forgot the date and ended up in a pub with an old farmer and Mrs Old Farmer. "Arrr,", said OF. "I took 'er for a meal but it were fifty quid. I said, 'I'm not paying that!' and she said, 'No, nor me either.' So we came yurr instead."

Ah, Somerset. The graveyard of romance.