There is a cupboard where we keep all the cat toys. (There are a lot of cat toys. Mostly they are feathers and scraps of wool and ping pong balls. Some are more elaborate, like the weasel that came on the "weasel on a (motorised) ball" toy – the cats hate the ball, but the weasel alone is good for killing, apparently. And all the toys live in a cupboard with one of those magnetic "locks".) My cat likes to play more than any other creature in the house, and as a consequence he's always been happy to entertain himself when all others drop away from the game. And as a consequence of that, he knows how to open the toy cupboard and fish out whatever toy happens to take his fancy. Tonight it's the weasel, although I doubt that will be the only toy pulled out by night's end. It's a pity he hasn't twigged to the whole putting your toys back in the cupboard after you've finished with them schtick.
In other news, the last thing I want to do tonight is write. This is because I'm tired. This is also because I'm a little stuck, plot-wise, and uncertain just exactly what the climax and denouement will be. This is disconcerting to say the least. The only thing that will make me write tonight? Is the knowledge that not writing doesn't take me any closer to fixing that little problem. Blerk.