I kid you not: I just watched a sulphur-crested cockatoo trip over his own feet and
face beak-plant. Perhaps the cats, both crouched in gargoyle mode the other side of the window, are putting him off. Or perhaps the knock to the head he took when he flew into the window has broken something. Or perhaps they are the clumsiest birds known to man. It's a toss-up.
My head, lately, has been full of the dubious joys of apartment hunting. It's really not fun, is it? Today, to distract myself from the pangs of attempting to find a place to live using only willpower and the internet (although I must not neglect the power of awesome friends), I started pulling things off shelves, cleaning them off and making them ready for packing, and in the process discovered quite a few cups and mugs and even a pair of candlesticks I'd forgotten I owned. Not to mention that set of Mikasa champagne flutes. Bonus! (If only I drank champagne.)
Why, on a bed that is at least an acre wide in relative terms, does the cat choose to sleep with a portion of his body hanging off the edge?