It had been a strange day. Cat was tired, and looking for somewhere to sleep. Whenever it found a promising corner, something was not quite right: a draught, a smell of dog, the rumble of traffic.
Cat had liked the lady in the black hat. She had fed it milk; in thanks, it had allowed her to be rubbed against. And then Cat had been fumbled atop a bundle of twigs and the city had fallen away and everything had been stars.
But afterwards she had chased it away, and now Cat stalked the drainpipes, eyes down and whiskers heavy.
V for vignette 