It was the last day of term today. I had three consecutive first-year classes at 2,3, and 4. Most of them weren’t there, of course. But some of those who did turn up were a little sad; earlier in the day, some had found that there had been a scheduled lecture at which three of them had appeared and the lecturer had not; others that they had been one of two people at a seminar which had then gone on for ten minutes. I think this is bad attitude; not that the little bleeders cannot be infinitely annoying; but if two, or even one, turn up, you give them a seminar, or lecture, to remember, surely? An Oxbridge style one-to-one experience, a reward for virtue? My lot, thin on the ground that they were, got a special slide show all to themselves. Anyway, we are all glad that it is the end of term. After weeks of not being able to believe my luck, the weather broke an hour before my bus, and I found myself battling up St Machar Drive in a blizzard … too like Scott of the Antarctic, my dears … buoyed up by the thought that I would not have to do it again. I eventually got home after adventures too tedious to describe (finding that the Malaysian Godpapa, due to arrive about the same time as me, was still in transit) to find Miss Kit in unexpectedly subdued mode. As Constant Readers will have realised, she is a kitten whose cheekiness and tendency to trade on her personal charm might have been considered excessive by Shirley Temple. Mrs Grey’s temper finally snapped; there was a feline battle royal in my absence which ended up with Miss K defecating freely all over the kitchen floor. She remains subdued; bruised I suspect, and certainly traumatised. It is the first really nasty thing that has ever happened to her — I vividly remember when Miss Dog was spayed, her misery resulted not only from the fear and discomfort of an operation, but from the all at once realisation that not everything in her tiny world was controllable. Miss Kit, I think, has been forcibly made to understand that a large adult cat could very easily kill her, and is digesting this information. It’s sad for the poor little thing; but I would very much rather she was half-killed by Mrs Grey (to be precise, there is not a mark on her, though my experience of feline ways suggests that she is stiff with bruises) than three-quarters, or entirely, killed by the rough cats. Since she is abundantly incautious, I do not find it in myself to be unduly sorry for her. She is a country cat, she needs to know that the Queensberry Rules only apply when both sides agree that they should.