Yesterday's first London flashmob sounded somewhat unspontaneous - perhaps the British need a bit more time to practise such things. And a few less reporters, but they could mostly do with a quick cull anyway.

I'm the worstest cat owner ever. Sophie is not speaking to me, and Megan stares at me in quiet shock at my cruelty.
First off, I removed four - yes, FOUR - of Sophie's favouritest toys ever from the house (these would be: I removed the spare bed, which is for hiding under when people try to lock it back down under the other bed; I removed the six foot four inch cat tree, which was somewhat difficult to manoeuvre around in a one bedroom flat, and hadn't been touched by paw nor whisker for two years - oh but that's not the point, not the blasted point at all; I removed the daily bin-emptying ritual, which allows strictly indoor cats to escape out of the front door, run down the stairs, and to roll in the crap in the yard, before the main point of the escapade, being caught; and ultimately, I removed the DH, the sucker, the favoured owner, the one who lets cats sleep on her head, gives them fresh salmon treats at ten am everyday, and plays the 'high up' game, where you throw annoying cats into deliciously dusty cupboards somewhere near the ceiling on a regular basis, then walk away and leave them there. Who knows where I've put the DH, but they're pretty certain by now that I got rid of her.)
Then, in the blistering heatwave, I developed an irrational dislike of small extremely badly balanced animals climbing out of third floor windows and sitting on outside window sills in the blistering heat. I've been so utterly inhumane as to pick them up off the hardly dangerous at all 2.5 inch exterior window ledge, make loud, insensitively cross noises, and then sleep all night in a total oven, with all the windows closed firmly shut, mumbling about bloody untrustworthy animals.
Finally, today, Sophie managed to climb further out along the ledge than previously, to the point where she couldn't get back into the window. (but of course, hours of watching the pigeon in the tree and daydreaming have convinced her this is no issue to a cat that can no doubt fly, if only her stupid owner would let her.) Not only did I have the temerity to grab the dumb cat, drag her back inside against her will, but in trying to escape the huge raw scratches I now sport across my chest, I shut the window on her left paw.
Appalling. (There is of course, nothing wrong with the paw, but that doesn't stop the Guilt Trip, whereby cat runs away from me when I approach, carefully hiding left forepaw from view at all times.)
I have a feeling only carefully chopped helpings of premium tasty cat nibbles will repay this grievous slight to feline honour.