The cat's mickey

It was one of those March days, as Dickens apparently said, where it's winter in the shade and summer in the sun.  I had a bank of classes ahead of me in the afternoon, which made the morning all the more precious  in  a kind of woeful, if only, sort of way. 
The sun was warm and the wind was cool and it was just the kind of day on which you just want to keep on walking and you know that as soon as you go back home you'll have to put on a bra and shoes and pretend to be grown up before going to work.   So I delayed the moment by tripping along the edges of winter wheat to prolong an otherwise short walk.  We trespassed down to JM's track and there was the cathedral, a little pin prick against the mountains.  The children always called the steeple the cat's mickey (legacy of their athesit, once-catholic Irish father), but there it was in all it's beauty, with the rest of the town hidden beneath the hill.