At twenty-nine minutes past eleven the alarm on his desk clock went bing. Moist got up, put his chair under the desk, walked to the door, counted to three, opened it, said “Hello, Tiddles” as the Post Office’s antique cat padded in, counted to nineteen as the cat did its circuit of the room, said “Good-bye, Tiddles” as it plodded back into the corridor, shut the door, and went back to his desk. You just opened the door for an elderly cat who’s lost hold of the concept of walking around things, he told himself, as he rewound the alarm. You do it every day. Do you think that’s the action of a
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