The first cat lives near me. A former stray, all she requires is the odd pouch of Whiskas, a topup of her dry food, and clean water, plus a few cuddles. I have been whizzing back from work, feeding her, then heading off to Romford and the second batch of cats.
These three are more demanding, coming with detailed instructions about how many scoops of dry food, how many teaspoons of wet food, and which one is on a diet (clue: it's the fat one). Two are girls from a rescue, one is a boy who just turned up and wouldn't leave.
I have been staying over with them, which means a refreshing change to my commute: onto the M25 and over the Dartford Crossing. It's all gone surprisingly well except for yesterday, when two lorries crashed into each other just before the bridge and caused several miles of tailback.
This morning I was treated to the sight of the male cat falling off a kitchen worktop with an empty pretzel bag jammed on his head. I think I've found my spirit animal.