Twenty something year old doing twenty something year old things

 Continuing in the tradition of my namesake Phoebe Buffay--I am actually named after the wise sister in The Catcher in the Rye but being neither wise nor a younger sister I generally nod in agreement to "oh, like Phoebe in friends?!"--I have found a cat friend that, I do believe is sending me feline messages of telepathy. She (or he, I have not inspected) has taken to sitting on our garden wall and, as I step out to the cool night air preparing to disappear below to my 'underchambers' (similar, in effect, to undergarment but in this case a bedroom that lies below the house) it sits and looks at me. The look, dear reader, is quite unnerving chiefly due to its unwavering intensity. I have, many times, ignored this wilful cat, disappeared into my bedroom, closed my door and taken to the bed. This method is not effective.  A tinkling of a baleful bell will interrupt my earnest preparations for sleep and I am forced, once more, to face this spectre of the night. Without f