Cats are sly, wily beasts that you know could easily take over the world if they thought power was in any way superior to snoozing and licking themselves on a sunny doorstep. Dogs are too busy trying to be the popular kids at the back of the class to conjure any sort of workable despotic manifesto of their own.
So it looks like Gordon Brown's recent bout of drunk-dialling paid off.
Inebriated with fear and anxiety, the big G apparently spent the past few days glued to his handpiece, desperately trying to convince friends and foes alike that 42 days is an acceptable amount of time to imprison someone without charge.
"I expect you've come about the attack," Mrs Coomber said brightly. "Well, it all happened when I arrived home from shopping last Wednesday night..."
The rest of the evening was spent going over a lively and detailed account of the incident - with just the occasional half-hour detour into a save-the-Totteridge-library campaign she championed three years ago - and I jotted down notes feverishly.
The best thing about this job is meeting such a wide range of people.
Rich, poor, young, old, black, white, sane, should-be-in-a-strait-jacket - this borough has them all.
Take last week for example. Having heard the harrowing tale of an elderly Totteridge woman who had been attacked and burgled by men masquerading as water board inspectors, I shuttled around to hear her story.
The relationship between tenants and landlords is rarely straightforward. In my case, until recently, it was non-existent - as in I had no idea who my landlord was.
Living with neither contact nor contract is in some ways a very pleasant way to exist, in a sort of fuzzy no-man's land where everything - including your sanity - is drifting a few inches above the floor, untethered to either the past or future.
Unfortunately drifting invariably turns into discombobulation at some point, when everything comes crashing to the ground. Namely, in this case, my clothes drawers.
I've learnt it's not the best sign when your phone conversation with your MOT garage begins with a sigh.
On this occasion it was so long, I eventually put the receiver on the desk, popped out for a sandwich, and returned just in time to catch the full stop.
"Miss Lowe," he said. It was less a question than a statement of weary acceptance. "Miss Lowe."
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