It’s 1st December or, as I like to call it, the first day of Psychological Winter.
Although we are very much a nature-minded household – well, it’s hard not to be when we live with a black vampire cat who informs us via his naughty behaviour when there’s a Bad Moon Rising – the date switching from November to December means it’s no longer autumn. My heart wants to believe that winter starts on the winter solstice, but my brain won’t let it; if I’m opening windows on my advent calendar and scraping ice off my car, then it’s not autumn.
Cat Daddy and I are having a competition to see which of us can attend more festive lunches than the other. So far, I’m winning with four versus Cat Daddy’s two, and he’s not happy about it. And he still maintains the idea that I cheated by starting mine in late November, whereas I just call that being organised.
So Cat Daddy threatened to have a Boys’ Club Christmas party, just him and Louis Catorze, to enable him to add one more to his tally. However, when I held him to his threat and even offered to make them some jambon de Bayonne and Comté canapés for the party, he started to backtrack.
Him: “I can’t have a Christmas party with just my cat. That’s the kind of thing some weird loner would do.”
Me: “I’d totally do it, if I could.”
Him: “So why don’t you?”
Erm, because the cat would decline my invitation, that’s why.
I am hoping that if I continue to bully encourage Cat Daddy, he will change his mind. Catorze would love nothing more than some festive fun with his papa but, in the meantime, he has other friends with whom to hang out.
Here he is, pictured at a previous Yuletide soirée, most likely laughing at one of his own jokes:
louiscatorze.com 
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