I don't think there's any harder doing-the-right-thing than that, but you did it Cozie, thank God - the last thing Seniorboy can thank you for.
Hope last night was a bit better than the one before.
We've had a Siamese-induced fiasco in Clapham. Everyone's piled in, the 200 residents of the flats, the gastropub, the guys who work in the tube, all the Czech ladies in Costa, etc.
Merlin, the vast clotted-cream coloured Siamese, is loving it. You may remember he was a stray (who I posted you about asking if you had any spare room).
Every morning for two years he has yowled for England on the garden wall, mewling his heart out with piteous hunger. My neighbour, the caretaker, the tube inspectors, any soft-hearted Claphamite, rushed downstairs to the garden bearing Felix.
Merlin took to arriving at 11 on the dot to see a queue of loyal servants. Bloodcurdling shrieks of joy at 11:01 daily (I used to know I would be late for work if I heard the Merlin siren). So far, so good.
Then Merlin got ill... rolled up looking really rough, fudgy cream fur covered in smuts. So he was taken in state to Battersea Dogs' up the road and treated, paid for at vast expense by my neighbour and her demented mother who are on benefits.
Battersea discovered Merlin was chipped. His home is a large villa in the next street. Battersea insisted on returning him to the villa, not the garden. That was last week. No sign Merlin. The community is livid.
Yesterday at 11:00 sharp the four-minute warning went off, and lo and behold it was elevenses in the garden again for a certain Siamese. Word went round like wildfire.
Merlin now has a series of bowls, regularly filled by London Transport operatives, and, er, a key to the flats.
It turns out that Merlin has been dining nightly at the gastropub - 20 quid for a burger - so he comes in after supper too now. He has a cushion in the caretakers' office and caretaker doesn't shut the main doors until Merlin is in for the night, snoring in the office which is heated to 90 degrees.