My cat nearly ate me.

 Last night, after almost fifteen hours of editing, I fell asleep on the sofa. This was in part due to the consumption of several glasses of wine. I wonder if they had me in mind when producing 15 percent proof muck.

    About four hours later I awoke because I was cold. But, strangely, not my face. That was swathed in warm air combined with a faint tinge of something dead.

    As my eyes cranked open it was to see what could only have been a giant tiger preparing to bite my head off. It was in fact, Harley, my Bengal tom. He wakes up every once in a while, just before going out to slaughter something.

    He's a great deal larger now than in the photo, and even the local dog foxes know better than to tangle with him. I've heard the results in the past. Fearing that he would come home torn to shreds, or not come back at all, I needn't have worried. Last week he slid smugly in with some suspiciously brown fur caught in his teeth.

    What this is leading up to, is that I'd just finished the eighth and hopefully penultimate edit of my new book. You might recall that it's about giant, fanged  lizards extracting the heads of anyone foolish enough to encounter them. Seeing Harley's face less than an inch from my own, politely asking to go out, coupled to the wine I'd just drunk, was enough to send me leaping onto the floor, convinced my last breath had come.

    I'm taking a day off tomorrow, both from editing, and that wine. I'll stick to tea for a couple of days.