Butter wouldn't melt . . .

Waking me up in the morning has become a Pavlovian ritual for Mimi. Within a few bars of my Harp alarm going off she is standing on my upper chest, as close to my face as she can get. She has to touch my skin or it doesn't count for her, so however much I pull the duvet up around my neck she finds a gap to put her paw into. It's often paw/claw-needing agony until she's had enough and goes off to Graham's side of the bed to have a drink of water out of his pint glass . . .