any table, any chair.
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge.
Open draw, empty shoe,
Anybody's lap will do.
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard with your frocks.
Anywhere! They don't care!
Cats sleep anywhere.
By Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)
Thanks to A Woman of Heart & Mind for the poem and the inspiration
Sigmund and I are both night-owls, which would be fine if he didn't have to get up at 6 am. Every morning is the same: I have to be dragged into consciousness most unwillingly. This morning I was particularly loath to greet the day. My bed was so warm and cozy! It was so dark and cold outside!
Even after the hurry-scurry of the school runs and a bracing walk in near-freezing temperatures, I just want to make out like Minstrel . . . and snuggle up betwixt radiator and Christmas tree. If I get peckish, I can nibble on the popcorn garlands that little daughter patiently strung together the other night.
A bout of baking also sounds rather nice. If you think I'm rushing the Christmas preparations a bit, I assure you I'm not. Little daughter finishes up school tomorrow night, and Sigmund's family arrive on Saturday for a Christmas warm-up. We will be having presents, crackers, games -- and, of course, some roast beast.
I'm thinking gingerbread men. Sugar cookies. Peanut Brittle. Homemade toffee.
Maybe the sugar rush will keep me awake . . .