Throwing Out My Alarm Clock

A while ago *coff three months ago* my alarm clock stopped working.

This caused a minor problem because when I don't need to get out of bed in order to turn my alarm off, I don't tend to get out of bed.

Which means getting out of bed late, skipping breakfast and flinging myself half-dressed out of the door in a panic to get to work on time.

So I pro-actively got right on that.

Last week.

But I really shouldn't have bothered.

Because the cats have come up with a new game.

A game called 'let's knock everything off the bottom shelf of Ricochet's bookcase'.

They like to play it at 5:30am in the morning and then wrestle on the resultant pile of books.

I'm not used to being awake at that hour.

And chasing a pair of furry bastards off a stack of Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and assorted murder mysteries isn't my idea of a gentle awakening.

So I surrendered the bottom shelf, redistributed the books, and settled back to enjoy a restful night's sleep punctuated at a seemly hour by the trilling of my new alarm clock.

Except the early morning wrassling has relocated itself to the foot of my bed.

There are two conclusions to be drawn from this.

One. Cats are the annoying, energetic, morning people of the animal world. You know, joggers.

Two. Procrastination is nature's way of telling you not to bother spending money on things that you'll never get around to using anyway.

So I might as well throw out the alarm clock.

I'll get right on that.

Eventually.