The most significant of the post-weddingisms are obtaining a working bathroom and a companion cat for Teasel. The bath -- a masterpiece of compact curviness which will just fit into our available space -- just turned up this morning, meaning we've now collected all the pieces we need to make bathroom happen. So we come to West Oxford Animal Rescue's shed of raging kittens.
Sunday's mother came in after she got a kicking, heavily pregnant and went straight to their volunteer vet, who managed the birth of single tiny kitten and kept Sunday's mum alive, too. Sunday's mother -- an astonishing symmetrical black and white with curved stripes over her legs and hard, golden eyes, deigned after a bit of grumping to let me stroke her, a little. Sunday, a nine-week old bundle of black and white fluff, rolled over as soon as she saw me and started patting at my fingers, nibbling my knuckles, and generally being, well, a kitten.
There are other beautiful kittens there -- a slender nervous ginger, a terrified-looking little black fluffy with just a little of her mother's tortoiseshell, like a haze hanging over her fur, and a sparky little black kitten, barely four weeks old, who stamps around like he owns the place. But none of them liked me like Sunday did, and in the end, they chose, too.
*Also several Golems.