For about a year I have known exactly how I am most likely to die: tripping over the cat on the narrow stairs leading from our attic bedroom. The realisation brings more clarity than comfort. I can think of better ways to go, but the cat is determined.
Every morning the cat waits patiently by the bedroom door until I am dressed. Then, just as I start down the stairs, the cat darts ahead to make sure it’s crouched sidelong on the tread where I am about to put my foot, forcing me to aim for the tread below that one.
