I have an intruder. Someone that has taken to sneaking into my flat on a regular basis. All it takes is an unguarded front door, or a window left carelessly open, and he is in. I enter rooms to find this unexpected stranger making himself well and truly at home, without so much as a "Do you mind if I come in?" or a "Hi friend, you free to hang out?".
He has no shame about attending to his personal toilette in the middle of my sitting room floor, regardless of whatever I might be doing, or whoever I might currently be entertaining.
Perched at the end of the bed, he has perfected his "You're really going out dressed like that?!" look. His furry stare of judgement is cast over each and every outfit I parade before him, smug in his own stylish, cashmere-soft, monochromatic ensemble.
He also fancies himself as quite the online expert, and loves a good session in front of/on the laptop. In fact, he dictated this post for me to type up on his behalf - on account of his not having any thumbs. (And because he prefers to rest his furry bottom on the nice, warm keyboard rather than use it to write things.)
When I'm packing for a business trip he comes round to help me load up my suitcase. And to investigate any tasty treats I might have smuggled back from foreign parts.
And he gets just as excited about the arrival of my weekly vegetable box as I do. Although it's fair to say, for a very different reason.
Now, it's not that I mind this fluffy fellow coming round unannounced for a visit, but my feline intruder does have a home of his own to go to. And I wonder - as he rolls about in my laundry or waits hopefully next to my fridge - if he isn't being missed there. He actually belongs in the flat downstairs. But you try explaining multi-leasehold agreements to a cat. As far as he's concerned, this is his house. And he'll hang out in whichever bit of it he likes...