At the Doctor's this morning, having my slightly low white blood cell count scrutinized in excessive detail, the Doctor looked up from my file, pointed to a bloody scratch on my nose and asked "You have a cat?"
Why yes. Yes I do. One that is so happy I am back that she wants to play all night. Best way to wake me? Scratch my lips and nose, hard.
Failing that, scrabble under the covers, up under the T-shirt in which I sleep, and bite me firmly, assertively, on the belly-button.
If I am still not game to play after such loving advances, she brings on subtler but equally effective tactics. Key among them is heading off to bite Clara's foot and then lie, purring loudly, on the girl's pillow, so that my daughter comes to get me up in order to remove the cat which is by then, purring and smug about having gotten me to pay full attention to her, finally, at 4.28 AM.