After about half an hour I realize there’s an unaccustomed warmth on my lap. And it’s buzzing. This perplexes me for a few seconds, until I realize what it is. Dammit, I’ve caught lap fungus! I carefully reach down with a fingertip, which Spooky sniffs, then attempts to pick her nose on. Then, while I’m trying to work out how to make a dash for the kitchen sink without being lacerated, I hear the front door opening.

“Hi, honey, I’m home?”

It’s Mo, of course. The joke may be threadbare but it’s not entirely worn out yet. But I instinctively move to stand up, at which point Spooky startles and emulates a rapidly deflating party balloon in terms of high-speed movement and random three-dimensional handbrake turns. She ends up crouched on top of the smoke extractor over the cooker, glowering at me as if I’m to blame.

“In here,” I call, standing and walking over to switch the kettle on. The kitchen door opens.

“What a day—” Mo freezes, violin case in hand. “What’s that?” she demands, bristling.

Oh dear. “Mo, meet Spooky. She’s the stray who’s been hanging out around the dumpsters at work; she followed me indoors today, and I was going to take her to the Cat and Dog Home but—”

“Oh for—” Mo plants her violin case on the kitchen table, removes her glasses, and rubs her eyes tiredly. (No eye shadow, I note, just old-fashioned exhaustion.) “It can’t stay here, it’s probably got fleas.”

“Not anymore.” Spooky has a shiny new flea collar. “Anyway, she doesn’t have to stay, but I couldn’t leave her in the New Annex overnight—the cleaners would eat her.”

“You didn’t think to put her back outside?”

“The forecast said frost tonight.” The kettle boils right then, so I busy my hands with the making of a pot of tea, leaving my brain free to chew over whether I’m simply making excuses or, or, or.

“Well, you’re on litter tray duty. Not my problem. And if it craps in my shoes it can look forward to a promising future as a violin string.”

Spooky stares at Mo with enormous black eyes, pupils fully dilated. She looks as if she understands exactly what Mo is saying, and likes none of it. “Well okay,” I say. “But if you’re so worried, how about we just spread a tarp or one of those gigantic plastic IKEA shopping bags over your precious footwear?”

“Feh. It’s my house, the lodgers are the ones who should go out of their way not to make waves.” She sits down and I suppress a sigh of relief.

“Bad day?” I ask.