Expect a lot of books

One of the first things people say when they come into my house is always;

-You have a lot of books!
-I do.
(Silence usually falls at this point, but only for a moment because its biding it's time, it know that it can rear its ugly head again later.)
-Have you read them all?
-Most of them. I can count on one hand the ones that I haven't though...
(Then my guest will wander towards one of the many bookcases/baskets in my house and run their finger along the spines of the books; hopefully noticing the lack of dust that all too often lingers on heavily burdoned bookshelves.)
-I used to love this series! I see you like your fantasy?
(It's always fantasy. No one ever says "I see you like your thriller, short stories or anglo welsh writers!")
-Yes. I do like a bit of Pratchett. The Discworld is...
-I used to read the Terry Goodkind books too.
-Their actually my partners...
(Ignoring me they quickly scan the rest of the bookshelves in my living room before saying)
-Don't you have the first one?
-'Wizards First Rule?'
-Yes?
-It's in the spare room. He owns a big copy of it, won't fit on these shelves.

Mrs Yettman sits in her chair and sniggers. She's seen it countless times, I should expect it now too, but somehow I am constantly suprised at how people chose to reference their knowledge of literature. For example, on clear display in my living room are the complete brightly decorated childrens versions of the Harry Potter books. They are almost without a doubt the most obvious and well known books on that particular shelf, (with the possible exception of the 'Complete Works of Shakespeare'...) However no one uses these books as a starting point for this conversation. I think perhaps it has something to do with them being primarily childrens books. Mrs Yettman is laughing now. She has been circling me for a few weeks now, preparing to pounce. I can hear her whisper write, write, write... She calls. I want to, I actually want nothing more, but unfortunatley real life breaks my heart and forces me to have time only to write in countless forms. Pink ones, yellow ones and white... they don't whisper. Their voices SHOUT!

Truthfully, I am tired. I have found a moment, one moment to write to you. I have no time to proof read, to check, or even to think. But this moment will silence Mrs Yettman for now. Slowly she is shrinking in size on my sofa, curling up into a tabby ball of fur. I watch her, she has become young and lively again. Craving my attention, my time. I pick her up, gently stroking her contented face, twisting her tail around my fingers. She rests contented in my arms as I make my way down the stairs, I put her outside next to the potted tree in my front garden and close the door and clip the latch on the cat flap. I come back upstairs. For a moment nothing happens. One beautiful moment of nothing, I begin to rest. I breath.

She has started to scratch at my door... it's only quiet, but I know it will soon become unbareable and I will have to let her in. Give her my time. My love.