Catsitters are just hell

He took the whole 'cat role' too far, even swallowing a mitten so he could cough up a fur ball.

He did manage to catch fleas, though - courtesy of yours truly. I'm glad I only had him for a week: it was only a matter of time before he started sharing the litter tray.

This time I'm stuck with the girl next door, who is more interested in smooching with her boyfriend on the sofa than pandering to my needs.

Ever tried making yourself heard to someone wearing an ipod. If she didn't want her legs scratched, she should have taken the thing out.

By day two, I'd got it down to a fine art: wait until she and her boyfriend were curled up on the sofa, then I'd curl up on top of them. A prolonged rub of the legs also takes their minds off matters at hand.

The current arrangement is very unsatisfactory - and may even merit a call to the local cat rescue. I have to stay indoors until the girl gets up, comes round, feeds me, then opens the French windows.

I then have to stay outdoors until she comes round and lets me back in.

These are long lonely days outdoors.

Thankfully, the humans return from their trip to Wales tomorrow. Last time they visited the Principality, I was sure the male came back speaking spatterings of Welsh. Turns out he had catarrah.

They promised to bring me something Welsh back, but I hate fudge. And what am I going to do with one of those big wooden spoons?

I'll give them the usual, 'where the hell have you been?' glance and skulk off.

Now they're threatening to take a long break in the West Indies. "And you'll be going on holiday, too," cooed the woman. "We'll book you into a cattery."

Not on your nelly! I'd rather roll around with Carl.