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Gus

The house lights went down over an hour ago and the audience has long fled into the London night.  The cleaners shuffled their vacuums along as quickly as possible past the lengths of banked seating and the ushers have downed their nightcaps and headed off home for bed.

He is the only remaining soul in this ancient theatre.

He pads through the stalls towards the stage looming out of the half-light infront of him.  With an effortless bound he lands on it and sends a small cloud of dust into the stale air.  Velvet curtains part as he pushes his way through them and he finds himself amongst a stage strewn full of set pieces, left for organisation in the morning. 

Here he sits and watches the theatre flies.  The rigging of a spotlight catches his eye and he jerks his head around the space working out a way to get up there.  Up there to where he can sit and survey his stage.  His audience.  His theatre. 

Or he could just sit down here and wait for the mice to wake up. 

The theatre cat thumps his tale against the stage tapping out an increasingly excited rhythm.  Tonight he'll wait for the mice. 

Maybe tomorrow he'll survey his world from on high.

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