Early morning waking and hastening downstairs to…

But she’s not there.

Later bracing yourself before you put the key in the front door, but in the few seconds before you get to the kitchen door, you forget.

The empty water bowl that you have to stop yourself from filling.

The earworm going round and round “I’ve got a little cat and I’m very fond of that, but I’d rather….

We were saving the bottle for a special occasion. Now it’s for the writer’s tears.

What is more appropriate than the wake for Sadie, the Irish immigrant from the Wicklow Mountains? August 4, 2000, you first met that scrap of blond mischief. She crept out of that awful barn, found you and decided she was coming home with you. And for fifteen years she organised your life.


Goodnight, Sadie, sweet dreams.