HOW TO DEAL WITH BUREAUCRACY
Written by Cathy Bryant
I was sitting in the library reading a favourite horror story (‘Vivia’ by Tanith Lee) when I felt something cool brush against my leg. It is a tribute to my love of libraries that I didn’t scream. Instead I made a small, respectable noise like a muffled cough, and looked down to confront the terrifying spectre.
It was a white cat, mostly moggy but with a hint of Persian and the insouciance of a god, weaving its way through chair legs and rubbing them with its cheek glands in the wonderfully civilised dance of feline ownership.
I observed the standard ‘O let me love you, Great One’ rituals: I slow-blinked, made gentle kissy noises, held out a hand and talked nonsense. The cat condescended to let me stroke it and rub its chin for a while, and then padded off unhurriedly about its business, like a man with a semi-regular arrangement to meet an old friend at a café.
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