I was born in Paris on a velvet cushion that belonged to a retired opera singer who insisted I had “a face for criticism.” She was correct. By the time I was six months old, I had sampled every sunbeam in her apartment and rejected half of them. My early years were spent overseeing café terraces, correcting the posture of pigeons and judging tourists who mispronounced simple pastry names. My favourite food is Caesar Salad. A journalist once tried to interview me for a feature on cultural icons. I declined because the lighting was poor. Eventually, my humans adopted me, believing they chose me when in truth I allowed it. Since then, I have travelled, observed, appraised and occasionally permitted admiration. This blog records the rare moments when the world met my expectations.