Them nights, they are totally drawing in, like.

Look at that. Barely 8.00pm and I had to hasten the pace to make it to the Forty Foot on foot before it gets dark (when it is, I imagine orcas and great white sharks and rabid bull seals in the inky black water beneath me). 

And what about that super blue moon?! Not just super (which is rare enough), not just blue (two full moons in the one calendar month you say?! Wow. The moon is mightily aware of (Roman) calendar months, you bet!) but a super blue moon! The Irish Times tell me that it won't happen again until 2037. That's if Putin hasn't blown up the moon, as the papers would have me believe. 
I imparted that piece of knowledge (the 2037 bit, not Putin blowing up the moon) to Mimi who was admiring it while savaging her Teddy's ice cream. Wow. She reflected that she'd be 30 then. 
I was going to tell her that there was a chance I'd be dead by then, but to make a stronger point I told her that the cat would quite likely be dead by then (especially if she still refuses to use the cat flap). Mimi thought it was a very inappropriate, verging on cruel, way of measuring the passage of time. 
It's unfortunately a very real thing. Time moves on. And pets die. Parents too, but that is less tragic (apparently, judging by Mimi's reaction). 

RIP Bonnie girl.