Most of the regular readers of this site know that domesticat's web server was down for a few days due to a very bizarre set of circumstances. Fewer of you know that I maintain a Hotmail drop box, which I use to protect my real addresses from spam.

Since I had a bit of warning that the server was going down last week, I sent out an email to friends saying that they should use my Hotmail dropbox until my @domesticat addresses were usable again.

Jane. Right out, along with Heathcliff. Visions of cinched corsets and unrequited longing.
Maria. Those blasted Von Trapp children. Definitely out.
Owen. Hey, wasn't he that short guy who spoke in CAPITAL LETTERS ALL THE TIME? Ugh, not going there.
Roxanne. She may not have to turn on the red light, but who wants to write about a character which comes with a pre-made soundtrack?

Welcome back from the rather suddenly-imposed hiatus, everyone! Glad to see that a few of you are still around and kicking. We at casa domesticat are doing the happy dance, now that our web server is back online.I'm pleased to report that you've missed virtually nothing in the meantime. The cats are still rotten, the house is a bit cleaner than it was last week, and everyone (except Gareth) has gone home (alas, geekfest is over…).

"It is—absurd—I know—but what other—explanation—is there?"
        —Dr. Daniel Schreber, Dark City

A man wakes up in a bathtub. Gingerly, he touches his face; there is blood on it. His? Or someone else's? The phone rings, and a stranger's voice crackles through the line: "You are confused. You have lost your memory." The line is suddenly disconnected…and there is a body of a dead woman in the living room. A body whose death appears to be of his causing, and whose murder he has no remembrance of.

Close the door. No need to be quiet; for now, there is no one else here.

The lock on the door slides home with a satisfyingly solid click. Two sets of whiskers slide cautiously into view from behind the divider; they are followed moments later by four cautious, reddish-golden feline eyes.

Note: this is being said after a rather late-ish night of geekfesting.

Enter three people into the living room, having left the kitchen after obtaining glasses of water.

Person B on sofa bed, groaning, with arm thrown over eyes: "What time is it?"

Me: "Eight-thirteen."

Person B: "You people are ill! Fuckers! Go back to bed!"