Minus seven here tonight boys. The decision has been made. I am stopping in. The frost on the glass is quite something. Not everything needs to mean something. Zzz. Tags: mule, London, February, winter, cold

It is very cold. Just the persistent, low, grey kind that sits on the house and doesn't move. The bird bath has been frozen since Wednesday. I have stopped checking. I have been watching the pigeon. I am not going to say anything further about it.

It's proper freezing here and that white stuff you had has now come here. We dare not go out, only for essentials. Think we may have to just sleep on top of one another all day.

George says write something so here I am. Cold tonight. Proper cold. There was something white on the garden this morning. George looked at it for a long time and then announced it was temporary. He is treating this as a position rather than a forecast.

She is painting everything. Not one room - everything. I followed her up the ladder in a supervisory capacity and she said several things I am choosing not to repeat and then closed the door. She is in better spirits than November, which matters more than the paint smell.

It's just dull, dull, dull here. Mack has a record sleeping competition going on and I think the puffy one is winning. He told me he's researching a book. Yeah right. She's still painting everywhere upstairs which is scary as our tails are dangerous up there.

The outcome: she has agreed to limit treats to one visit per day. I feel it is a reasonable settlement. I did not expect a reasonable settlement. My agent occasionally surprises me. The heron came back this morning. Same fence. Same expression.

Mule. Six to eight. Respect. Mack

I am not judging this. What I am doing is conducting a quiet review of my own position and finding it underdeveloped. We have two addresses. Possibly two and a half. To maintain that operation is, and I will use the word, masterful.

Confession time. I've been nabbed. I trip off through the window and pitch up at whoever's house I happen to feel worthy of my presence. My agent discovered my closest fan and approached them today. I've got six or eight other addresses in the book so I should be fine.

I'd been asleep all day and night and could hear the frying pan on - she was cooking a bolognaise. I couldn't resist the smell so jumped up on the counter in a semi dream. The blackbird was left just outside the back door earlier… or was it?

All fine here, George. I have been thinking through a situation and wanted to be sure of the facts before writing anything down. I am now sure of the facts. My agent has been involved in a way that was not requested.

I want to note that I am not concerned. I am observing. There is a difference. We sat near her. Not with her, obviously. Near. The mouse was fine. She was not fine. Different things.

Not much to report here. George left a tiny mouse under the kitchen table today and she went mental, but it was that small we didn't know what all the fuss was about.

January in London is a specific experience. Everyone who was somewhere else for Christmas has come back and is now standing on pavements looking slightly betrayed by the weather. There has been a bird. Not a pigeon. Something considerably larger.

Only thing that's cheered us up today - it's so cold and boring we haven't moved, apart from feeding time, which we gave an average score. Anyway, roll on summer.

December 2025 Week 52 New Year's Eve After midnight Still up. Not sure why. She's watching something on the television with a lot of shouting and counting. George is asleep on the chair, which means I'll have the No.1 bed again which is the only genuinely good thing about tonight. There were apparently fireworks somewhere outside at midnight, but George slept through them. I've decided not to mention it. No point. New Year. Right. Everyone very exercised about it. Same house.

The days since have been a specific kind of quiet I find either deeply restorative or mildly concerning depending on the hour. Mack has barely moved in three days. He is either hibernating or conducting research. He says he is conducting research.

A quiet one here. Peaceful, in the way that London occasionally manages when everyone has somewhere else to be. He has done something with the chair. I have assessed it. I have committed. I am not going to make a thing of it.

I want to begin by saying that Christmas morning was, overall, a success. The chicken was a proper one. The allocation, when it came, was adequate. It was technically adequate. Mack has declined to comment on his portion.