Slim, cats and the Room of Doom

Well, I am back home.
I timed my return just right: San Francisco is socked in by fog and Dubuque shines in sparkling sunlight.
I return to work tomorrow. In the meantime, I am carrying totes of winter clothes down to the very back of our basement, a rather dank and quasi-sinister space the girls have christened "the Room of Doom."
It is increasingly apparent the room is aptly named: The cats are taking turns playing chicken with my legs as I carry heavy totes down the basement steps, between the treadmill and some garage-sale items and up into the Room of Doom.
It is only a matter of time before one of them trips me up and I spill myself and the contents of a tote onto the floor of the Room of Doom.
At least I will have Slim Smith to help me convalesce.
I have been listening to the sweet-voiced reggae legend throughout the morning (which feels like REALLY EARLY, as I have not yet recovered from the two-hour time difference).
Someone once said: Slim Smith could read a collection of traffic citations and it would still sound like the greatest song you have ever heard. That's what kind of a voice he possessed.
Now, back to my tote-carrying day off. Mika! Lorelei! Get out of the way, you crazy cats!