I was filled in on his habits by his people before they went away: he likes to have company while he eats his dinner, then he goes out to inspect his territory, then he comes in and leans against you while you watch TV. If you are particularly favoured he'll roll over to reveal his soft underbelly.
Every evening I come in to find him waiting inside the front door with a selection of hungry mews lined up ready; I'm choosing to believe that he hears the front gate open, rather than assuming the position from mid-afternoon.
He does tend to jump on the bed at five in the morning, but when he realises that no breakfast will be forthcoming at that hour he curls up behind my knees in a very cute way.
It makes me sadder than I can say that my dysfunctionally busy lifestyle and non-ownership of my home currently prevents me from having one or more mogs of my own. Perhaps when I retire.