The little black cat, otherwise known by us as Pushkin (to retain his anonymity, you understand), is starting to feel a little better. Yesterday he was only sick once, although he did get a little confused and think that my hip bone protruding through my shorts as I sat on a deckchair in the garden was a mouse and bit it.
Today he had a productive morning between the hours of 5.30 and 7.30am, batting Husband and I in turn until one of us got up to feed him. He has tried that trick every morning so far. Morning exertions over he has sat beside me all day and slept... in a ball, on top of a pile of magazines on the sofa.