"Speak of the devil," Theodore murmured, ushering the cat away from the ashtray and onto his lap. She had very little interest in him, however, and stretched out for his meal, which he carefully unwrapped and deposited on his plate. Chips here, fish there, separated by an invisible barrier that mattered to nobody but Theodore. He used his fork carefully to cut away a piece of fish and divest it of breading, and the cat waited impatiently -- only because his hand was in the way -- for what was rightfully hers. Unsure where to put the piece of meat, he held it out to her upon the fork, earning him the sort of condescension only a cat could manage. He didn't relent, and he was appropriately punished when she took the food from his fork and promptly deposited it upon his lap, where she nibbled at it lazily. Typical feline.
He carefully cut his chips, each one in turn, and considered the mockery of politics that their Ministry had become. And the game. And myriad other things which didn't bear thinking of but managed to cross his thoughts all the same. The case the next morning, the research he should continue, the prospects of love and terror and patriotism, all jumbled so thoroughly that when Tracey shouted at the wireless, he started, earning another severe stare from the cat.
"It's good," he said absently, though he was still carefully dissecting his fish into appropriately sized pieces.