I dreamt about the small black kitten again last night. He was there yesterday, too, fluffy and urchinish, in the same place on the stairs at the bookshop (would the world not be a better place if all bookshops had a bookshop cat?). This time I'd gone to the bookshop after I'd been spooked by a pale man in a trenchcoat and a fedora. He hadn't been obviously following me, but us humans are really good at spotting focussed attention and after I'd ducked out of one shop and into another and he was still there I was certain and quickened my pace. But there was the kitten, and I picked him up and as I was fussing him I stole a sneaky glance at the pale man. He had a kindly demeanour; he looked like he had been drawn by Dave Gibbons (who is on my mind since I discovered he has been declared Comics Laureate, to my delight, I cannot think of a better choice). His gestures were relaxed, and his face was lined, but not in a sinister way. The kitten, either irritated by my divided attention or begging for food, licked my mouth. I set him down (gently) and he bounded down the stairs and up to the pale man, for his next round of fuss, which seemed to be forthcoming.