Those bloody Lockleys have left me with a medically unstable cat minder

Yesterday I spent 15 minutes trying to rub against the screaming woman's legs. She shouted from the chair she was standing on: "Shoo! Shoo! I'll get blisters."

That's worrying - I think Blisters is the name of her dog.
You would think the Lockleys could find a catsitter who isn't medically unsuitable. I mean, Arthur Daley didn't give his minder a rash.

Two nights I've been sleeping in that shed. It used to be fun when the mice were in there, but they moved out because of the damp.

Now it's just me and those...what are they called - big insects with lots of legs that dangle from the ceiling? No, I don't know either, but they're crunchy. Eat one of those and you're hungry again within 15 minutes - they must be Chinese.

It's my own fault, really. Last time they let me stay in the house, I left so many little surprises behind doors they dubbed me 'Pyramid'. It really did Sphinx, too.

"Look, Keogh," said Julie in an attempt to cushion the bombshell that I faced another brief exile from Chateau Lockley, "we've put your favourite blanket in the shed." I gave her a 'thankyou very bloody much' glance and skulked off.

She's got a favourite chair. Stick that in the backgarden and force her to sit in it for two days and see how she likes it.

"There's everything you need in here," she fussed, creating a space in the cramped, musty outbuilding.
A lawnmower and pair of shears! 'Must haves' if you're planning to run over a rodent, then remove the fur.

There's also a tin of varnish for cats who like a quick, clean finish when dealing with prey.
Each time the family goes away, they bring me back a present. When they went to Cornwall, they bought a cuddly pixie. They came back from a previous Welsh break with a toy sheep.

I'll have to wait until they descend on Shrews-bury before I receive something I can get my teeth into.
If being banished wasn't enough, I've also become a victim of the credit crunch. For the last year I've dined on such gourmet delights as salmon and rabbit in a rich gravy sauce, supplemented by the odd choice nibble. There was kitty milk, too.

Now it's a cheapo supermarket brand and water. I sniff the stuff, give a 'no self respecting cat would advertise that' look and walk out in protest.

"If you don't like it," hissed Mike as he shovelled some slimy chicken concoction onto my plate, "catch your own." I'll give it a go, but have you ever tried felling a chicken?
"I don't think she likes the new brand," tutted Julie.

"Listen," he insisted, "she's a cat not a restaurant reviewer."

I'd make a good food critic because I say it as it is. None of those rambling, gushing essays, crammed with poncey words. I just walk away from the dish, find a suitable spot on the floor and vomit. As a critique, it's straight to the point and honest.

If the army of over-fed and over-paid restaurant writers did the same, readers would really take notice.