Yesterday Whisky, my black-and-white kitten, reminded me I haven’t said anything about her on my blog for years. I said sorry but there’d been more important things on my mind.

She’s not for letting me forget it.

She said one ought to be nice to friends, and not go insulting them gratuitously. That’s if I wanted to stay friends. Might I be trying to chase her away because I want to save on her cat-food? But don’t fancy being dissed as the man who took his pet to the vet and said: Here you can damn well do what you like with her?

I assured her that nothing could be further from my mind than the cost of her cat-food. She asked how I’d feel if I woke up tomorrow and she wasn’t there. All that cat-food in my cupboard would go to waste. Or did I have my eye on some local alleycat who wants to come in from the cold? One who’s got some nefarious hold over me, like reminding me of the time I pissed the bed? Then go and piss on the bed herself?

I said stop going on about the cat-food. It’s not an issue. And where would you go? You’d be sensible to stay with me if you knew what was good for you. Any time in the last 4 years you could have pissed off and got yourself a better deal that you’re getting now, if I hear you right.

I got claw-marks on my hand for the first time in ages. Whisky says I’m lucky she didn’t split my other ear.

Frayed and exhausted at the end of a busy day, trying to get one neighbour to help me take the other neighbour to the cleaners, I was hoping for a nice warm pussy in my lap as usual. But no – she’s sulking.

She tells me that humans would have a lot less appeal in the world if they didn’t have so much cat-food to dish out.

Tonight – she’s getting half-rations.