For someone who is so set on achieving objectives, which has characterised my life so hard over the last two years, it seems that I am incapable of formulating a goal of life. It struck me, another thing like the last post, that I still only have the most nebulous idea of what I want to do in the future. I only know, or hope, that it involves writing.

lifegoalsI’m deep in revision at the moment, that charming process whereby we are being prepared for The Test. It is the school’s nod to the fact that they have to make their best effort to see us through the coming tests in good order.

This evening I spent five hours doing that, and at the end it felt like my eyes were bleeding from it. Mark is going through the same, so we’ve been sitting back to back here in the little office upstairs leafing through our notes to fresh up our recollections of everything. I ask him about literary figures and books, in vain because he has no clue about that. He tries to elicit help from me with his maths, which makes me wipe the drool off my chin.

And it is such an artificial thing, this, for something that everyone says we won’t ever have any use for later, and I don’t even know why I’ve subjected myself to this for so long. For what? I haven’t a flipping clue because the future, where all this is supposed to be so valuable and good and everything – even if I’ll never ever use it again – is utterly impregnable for me.

But at least we have a cat now that is gingerly exploring these unknown surroundings, and then speeding like a bullet down to the safety of her basket in the room downstairs should one of the bad big dogs come near. To be honest, she does that with Mark and me too, and only allow us to touch and pet her there. If she’s on the prowl in the rest of the house, she’s gone as soon as we look at her.

Mark says that the cat was pretty abused and it’s going to take some time for her to trust anything. We’ll just have to show her we’re not dangerous. And when she associates food and water with us, she’ll be fine with us. However, Watson, who should be a respectable gentleman at over three dog years, sees it all as a game and gives chase when she flees.

Oh well, back to revision. The animals will sort themselves. Watson will have to learn the hard way to be mindful of cats.

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