When Séba went to the vets a couple of weeks ago, it was suggested he could stand to lose a lb. Which I sort of suspected. It's quite hard to explain diets to cats though. I've made sure he only has the amount he is supposed to have everyday. This means he is hungry. And this means that he has resumed the early morning wake-up calls. Having your nose poked with a claw at 7.30am is fine in the week, but annoying at the weekends. That's OK, I thought, I'll get up early and cycle round to the supermarket before the traffic builds. I can use their cafe for my last beta-reading of Contractually Obligated Thing. Then I can do the corrections and also have time to alter a rather fab dress before going out tonight. Except I just checked and the supermarket doesn't open till 10am. 10am! I want to do this now. What kind of stupid thing involves not opening till 10am. I could go round to St David's station but I'm not sure that will work as a revision environment because the coffee is horrible and the cafe echoes with bingley-beep announcements. Boston Tea Party doesn't open till 10am and the Caf&eacte; on Cowick St - where I was working yesterday - is closed on Sundays. If I didn't have the dress to alter, I'd be tempted to get on a train and go to the buffet bar at Yeovil Junction because that was a great spot.

I like working in cafes. The distractions are removed. I can't sneakily start reading OG. Or argue with people on mailing lists. Or decide to do complicated house chores. There's just the printed off copy, a red pen and a cup of coffee.