Rain

It is wet. Unrelentingly wet. She Who Controls The Can Opener made a passing aside about living in the Rainy City. Her sarcasm was not appreciated. The fact is, it is summer. The days should be long and warm and my time spent chatting up the neighbourhood's fit young queens. Instead, it is raining. Apart from a brief respite during Wimbledon, we have endured a daily tropical downpour of monsoon-like dimensions. I sit in the back window and watch my territory disappear under mini floods that are deep enough to reach my hips.

I am itching to go out - I need air, exercise and company, as well as patrol my kingdom to stop the chavscum moggies from encroaching. I am bored of sleeping, even though it is a splendid way to pass the time. And I do not care to have the indignity of the tray inflicted upon me. She Who Controls The Can Opener insists there is nothing She can do and that I can go out if I wish. It is alright for Her - she has an umbrella. My pelt will be ruined, ruined I tell you, if I venture out under such conditions. A call to the Met Office surely beckons.

Gloom

It's been a dark spell at Wordsmith Towers. She Who Controls The Can Opener has been unwell for some days, firstly with back pain then a night fit. She has been shouting at poor me all day and I can do nothing right. I tried to rub up against Her legs but She wasn't having it. I felt slighted at my attempts to comfort Her.

Clearly She is stressed. Perhaps the book? Then again, perhaps not. I heard Her have a terribly long phone call two nights ago and She has seemed very sad since then. I took a sneaky peek at Her PC last night while She was crashed out and my suspicion of a major falling out appears to be along the right track. I cannot see Her taking any further steps to making amends, though. She seems clear that She has gone as far as She can on that score. I do hope whoever She's had this bust-up with does the decent thing because I don't think I can take the bleakness here much more. It's driving me outside, despite the rain and wind.

In the meantime, I shall snuggle up to Her on the bed tonight and offer Her my secret stash of smoked salmon.

Indignity

There was an, er, incident, on Sunday night. I can't possibly reveal details for fear of being stalked by Albanian gangster toms, but suffice to say it left me somewhat shaken.

She Who Controls The Can Opener naturally got hold of the wrong end of the stick and, after fussing far too much over me the last few days, carted me off to my private physician. There, I was prodded, poked and forced to endure the indignity of having a thermometer - no, I couldn't possibly say where. All this followed by two very unpleasant injections. It's a poor show when a gentleman's propriety is thus invaded. Fortunately my natural good manners meant I would conceal my discomfiture.

I am finally back in the privacy of Wordsmith Towers, where I shall lounge on the sofa tonight in resplendent comfort and partake of a little light entertainment on the TV. I shall also be expecting some of Her smoked salmon and posh chocolate. I know She has some - I just need to find out where She has stashed them...

Stop-out

No, not me (for once), but Her. She Who Controls The Can Opener. She left the house at 5pm on Tuesday afternoon, after giving me my supper (tuna Whiskas, hardly my favourite) and said She'd back by 11pm.

Well, I sat up until midnight, sprawled across my favourite yellow club armchair (the one I'm not supposed to use), but there was no sign of Her. I kept waiting to hear Her key in the door, but the house was deadly silent.

By 6am, I was restless, hungry and desperate to go out for some fresh air, exercise and a chance to chat up the fit young queens in the vicinity. I nipped upstairs to pounce on Her with my demands as I assumed She'd slunk in in the small hours.

The dirty stop-out. Her bed was clearly unslept in.

Gah! The hours ticked by and still I was alone, abandoned and starving. Was I doomed to be walled up here and left to die from lack of nourishment?

She finally reappeared at 3pm. 3pm! By then I was weak from not having eaten for almost a whole day. If I hadn't become so enfeebled, I would have flung myself at Her in fury. She did have the grace to tend my needs immediately, giving me masses of food, hugs and an open back door.

The weird thing was that after She had apologised profusely, She insisted that She'd been delayed as a result of crossing The Void and entering a parallel universe. Does She really think I'm stupid enough to believe She was kidnapped by aliens then rescued by a Timelord? I have watched Doctor Who with Her, after all.

There's something rum going on here, and I intend to uncover the truth...

Locked out

She Who Controls the Can Opener had a bit of a party last night. It had been so peaceful during the day then suddenly my mansion was full of loud music and even louder people. And it went on for hours. Mostly, I stayed upstairs for fear of being trodden on. Occasionally, I peered around the door of the living room to enjoy the oohs and aahs as Her guests gasped at my handsomeness.

Around 1am, I reappeared looking for Whiskas as I was peckish. The back door was open! So naturally I nipped out to do my business. The next thing I knew, the door was shut, locked even and I was abandoned to spend a rainy, windy night sheltering under the shrubs next door.

At least She got up early this morning to let me back in. I'm off for a very extended sulk now. Sit on Her knee later? No chance. She needs to be punished properly for Her disgraceful behaviour.

Imprisoned

Alas, the rumours turned out to be true. Not long after the turn of the year, She Who Controls the Can Opener began to fill our home with boxes. It could mean only one thing - we were moving again. And sure enough, we did. I was not happy.

On moving day, I was shut into my taxi (travel box to you) and left there. It was freezing outside and snow lay on the ground. Fortunately, my taxi has a cosy lining otherwise I would surely have frozen to death while those men left the front door wide open as they emptied the house of everything. It was ghastly.

Worse was to come. I'd foolishly assumed the move would be nearby, like last time. A mere five minutes away. Try 40 miles. I was furious and made my displeasure clear to Her and Her driver all the way. I can outsing those 3 Tenors chaps any day...

We have now been here a whole fortnight and I am trapped indoors. Imprisoned, no less. I have not been out once since we installed ourselves here. She keeps insisting She is too busy with work to let me enjoy some fresh air and acquaint myself with the new neighbourhood. This is most unfair - I look out of the windows and see other felines (including what appears to be a most fit young queen) and there are squirrels too - I do enjoy my blood sports.. But no, I am stuck inside and most fed up. And worst of all I am forced to use the tray. Someone please start a petition to have me released. Ask no. 10. Otherwise I fear I may end up inside longer than Harry Roberts.

Attacked

I have been assaulted! She Who Controls the Can Opener left the back door open for me early this morning, it being not too cold here (we seem to have missed the snow), so I could conduct my perambulations at leisure.

After a short foray around the garden I slipped inside to finish my breakfast when, to my horror, I was struck viciously from the rear and pinned to the floor. Herself must have heard some commotion as she was suddenly by my side, chasing the fiend off.

It was the chavscum black tabby from further along the street. It has always been jealous of my good looks and good fortune. Anxious to defend my territory and reputation, I tore after the rapscallion and tussled with it in the bushes. There was some yowling and growling, and I lost some of my glorious pelt, but with a little assistance from Her, I saw off the bounder. My face is saved and I doubt that piece of chavscum will have the nerve to return. Oh no, Sir.

I am now recuperating on the sofa and being soothed by Her as I rest my weary bones. I'm still in slight shock that that beast came into my home, my home, and assailed me, from the rear no less. The coward.

I must plot my revenge.