I don’t think I’ve mentioned my new neighbours yet. Across the hall from us lives a young couple. They are quite friendly and, naturally, quite Swissy chic (he’s a dancer, she’s a choreographer expecting their first child later this month) and they have a cat. And the cat’s name? Barack Obama.

There’s nothing wrong with cats per se, I’m just more of a dog person, that is if I were responsible enough to care for something more needy than a cactus. This cat must have been on very good terms with the previous tenants because he spends most of his time on our balcony.

For the most part I don’t mind as long as he stays out of my business, but for the past few nights he’s been steadily scratching at our door and clearly wants in. Although I’ve done my best to ignore him, much like his namesake he’s prepared for a second term. He’s been pushing on the door and meowing up a storm, but I know if I give in and let him in once, he’ll never leave. At least that’s what happened with Neil.

Anyway, the other night I embarked on my nightly routine—locked the balcony door, turned off the lights, brushed my teeth, spent the usual amount of time in the mirror pondering the worry line/grand canyon between my eyebrows and toddled off to bed.

I switched on the bedroom light and from under the bed sprang a very large furry creature. Christ all friggin’ mighty—the screaming and then the chasing of a cat that went on. I can’t even imagine what the neighbours must have thought of me stamping around at 1:30 a.m., yelling top lung, “Barack Obama! Out! Barack Obama! OUT YOU FILTHY BASTARD!”

The nerve of that sucker. I guess he pushed in through the unlocked door when I wasn’t looking. At any rate, he nearly gave me a heart attack. I think I would’ve been less startled to see Monsieur Obama himself, which I suppose wouldn’t be a bad thing. I like a powerful smartypants as much as the next gal although, truth be told, if one of the Obamas had to be hidden in my bedroom I’d prefer it be Madame.

I know all my lesbian friends are declaring triumphantly, “I knew it!” while preparing defection papers for me, but hold off for the moment. All I’m saying is that if you unexpectedly find an Obama under your bed, it might as well be the one who’s the brains of the operation.

Well, with that my Finders, I’m off to Zurich. I’ll be back on Wednesday to report on my trip to the big city.