Cat

I was thrilled to see the Cameron-Clegg administration bow to the inevitable this week and send for a cat to police Number 10. The sighting of vermin at our most prestigious address can't be a good thing for the country's image. (Insert your political rat joke here). A grateful nation must hope Larry is successful in his mission of making the outside of Number 10 a safe place to do pieces to camera once again.

There was an unmistakable air of self confidence about Larry as he was unloaded by his handlers. The photographs of him on the stairs show a cat with a degree of chutzpah, not to mention his pre-emptive strike on ITV News correspondent Lucy Manning. But there are things the Camerons should know about their new friend.

First, the vast majority of cats are accomplished benefit scroungers. They will always choose the path of least resistance and Downing Street looks as if it has a number of excellent places to get some shut-eye. I suspect Larry may not be a fan of volunteering, and like one of Downing Street's former bosses, cats as a species do not really recognise society.

But secondly, should Larry feel an urge to make a living and actually nail a couple of rats the Camerons should expect a visitor in the wee hours bearing a gift. This gift may infact be only wounded. We can only hope Dave and Sam have a strong stomach, and perhaps a shovel should be issued to the Number 10 copper to extinguish any rat-resistance and dispose of any bodies.

Third, and this is crucial, getting on with cats requires both bribery and an eye on your furniture. I suggest Whiskas treats and the installation of a scratching mat on the cabinet room wall. You can get them from Lidl, Prime Minister, if you're passing.

Bonne chance Larry!

Cybercat

Twitter is all the rage these days and my cat Dylan now has a twitter account in which he micro blogs his days spent being terrorised by other cats and chilling in the towel rack. Do follow him, if cats are your bag.

My Cat In The Towel Rack

Dylan In The Towel Rack

So I'm back from my run and seeking socks when I look up and my cat Dylan looks me in the eye. That was a bit of a shock; I'm accustomed to looking down at our cats rather than have them stare us out from eye level.
My question is not why he goes in the towel rack, as you can see it's warm and dim and so is the perfect place to purr away the day, more how the hell did he get up there?

Strictly Decompressing

Spent today adjusting to the fact that sunshine and a beach won't be featuring in my life for the forseeable future. Fortunately there are compensations:

- Strictly Come Dancing has started , and Enid (our superb cat sitter) recorded the episodes we missed. I was going to review it but TV Dinners does it so much better, so rendering my effort pointless.

- Our cats. I kind of missed the little tykes. There was a cat at our hotel called Banjuk but he scratched me.

- Radio. Bunged on the Today programme on the way home from the airport and heard one of Norman 'Storming' Smith's politics two ways. These go out on the show most mornings at around 0630, and if you like politics they're about the best three minutes you can spend. This one summarised the Brown/Milliband position with great clarity and I felt bang up to date.

But I have some weight to lose. 13 stone 1 pound is too heavy for me, so it's no drinking for the forseeable and it's back to running and weight watchers points tomorrow. There can be no sin without retribution.

Cats and Spiders

Summer has arrived and the sun has turned London into an oven. When not in the airconned newsroom the only Brixton based relief is either to head for the Lido or sit very quietly in the garden nursing a cool beer and turning over the pages of a book.
But even the garden has distractions. I can't help abandoning my biography of General Montgomery to watch our cats, who interact with the garden in a completely different way from one another. Hendrix (above), has decided that he rules the garden from the comfort of a wicker chair while his brother Dylan approaches the lawn with all the caution and watchfulness of a Maoist guerilla in the swamp. Occasionally, as if to prove a point, one or other will climb the pear tree. But on the whole Hendrix remains aloof and motionless while Dylan stalks around the grass, ears pivoting, in order that he misses nothing. A spider (they seem both big and numerous this year) embarks on a mad web building mission above the decking before settling in the middle of its trap to wait for airborne dinner.

Hank

Suburban life comes into its own in the summer. Warm sunlit evenings, walks to the pub or the park, and almost always on venturing up Milton Road, an encounter with Hank. His tarty ways were a joy to all; he wasn't proud like some cats. Instead he would greet you as a long lost friend, with noisy miaow. Then, if picked up, he would purr like a Bentley's engine and curl across your shoulders. To put him down was an affront.

He had many homes, and no homes; no owners exactly but many owners, who all took turns at feeding him and getting treatment for him at the vets. They were with him when after a long life, he slipped away yesterday.