Nelson's Column

Model

2012-01-21T09:46:00.004Z

I am the star of the internet this morning.

I have been telling SWCTCO for years to sign me to an agency so I can star in a James Bond film. I'd even settle for a cat food ad, although it would have to be gourmet food, obviously.

But finally, she took some test shots and sent them off to some dodgy Fleet Street contact of hers - I was expecting to be offered an eight-page spread in Hello ("My gorgeous life in my lovely home") or possibly an in-depth interview in the Observer magazine, but no.

However, this is a very acceptable alternative. I should have modelling agents, fans and Daniel Craig calling my people any moment now...

You may admire the original on SOTM.

Intruder!

2011-06-28T07:49:00.000Z

This morning, I had a mouse.

I say had - it was very brief.

I can't say how it got into our mansion, after all I wouldn't want to incriminate my good self, but suffice to say SWCTCO got a nasty shock when she realised the mouse I was toying with below her desk at 7am was not the grey, catnip, faux, doppelganger variety she fobbed me off with weeks ago but a genuine, live, grey, real rodent of the mus musculus type...

So anyway, the wretched beast was cowering behind all SWCTCO's computer cabling and trying to duck under her sub-woofer (not, not a dog, but some stereo kit, apparently - or so she says). I had him a few times under my paws, let him go then caught him again - it was quite fun and I had no real intention of doing him any harm.

SWCTCO had other ideas, though. She shrieked initially when she realised we had an invader, but then sat back and watched as I clearly had the situation under control. But the mini rat slipped out from under my foot and began trying to jump up the wall. The fool. Mice are so stupid.

While I was watching, fascinated, at this particular rodent's idiocy SWCTCO briefly vanished and returned with a pint beer glass. Yes, really. It was only 7am and I know she likes a tipple but it was a little early even for her. Before I knew it, she was on her hands and knees, pushing me out of the way, and had dropped the glass over the mouse. Then she slid a magazine under the glass and righted it. The mouse was trapped in a beer glass and my fun curtailed.

I could only watch in disgust as SWCTCO opened the front door and deposited my trophy down the drain across the street. That was mine, mine! She has ruined my day for taking away one of my prime duties, which is to keep the mansion free of marauding invaders of all sorts but not before I have been entertained by them. I have been deprived of my heroism.

Only one thing for it, I shall have to spend the day snoozing and ignoring her in revenge.

By popular demand

2010-09-01T17:11:00.001Z

My fans have been clamouring for signed photographs. Yesterday, I was snapped hard at work, covering for SWCTCO who was supposed to be writing but was in fact skiving.

Anyway, my portrait soon made it into a dozen different editions of the Twitter newspaper known as Paper.li and before I knew it I was being swamped by the paparazzi and had obsessed fans hammering on the front door. It ruined my afternoon snooze, I can tell you.

Today, I told SWCTCO in no uncertain terms I would no longer be exploited as an unpaid intern. Whyever would I settle for that, when clearly a role as cover star of Heat beckons?

Fleeing the surgeon

2010-08-18T14:10:00.002Z

I have been forcibly dragged to the evil pox doctor of this parish five times in the last month. Five times!

Some four weeks ago I was viciously assaulted by one of the Albanian gangster toms that regularly patrols my neighbourhood. It's bad enough being forced to share my street with the hordes of chavscum moggies that lurk behind every shrub, but the Albanian villains clearly need taking in hand by the bobbies.

I had popped out briefly for my regular early morning constitutional and was enjoying the fresh dawn air when the Albanian ambushed me from the side and sank his fangs into my left shoulder. I valiantly fought him off but by the time I had staggered home with blood pouring from my injuries I was close to my deathbed.

Fortunately, She Who Controls the Can Opener noticed things were amiss and put me in my sedan basket and whisked me off to the local Sweeney Todd, who promptly shaved my leg, poured chloroform over my nostrils and performed emergency surgery. My injury was poisoned, no doubt with ricin, and I hovered at the gates for several hours before I was given the all-clear and SWCTCO returned me to my hearth.

Several follow-up appointments were required in order to restore me to full health. I have been forced to put a price on the Albanians' heads as it is cheaper than visits to the pox doctor and less unpleasant.

To add to my indignity, I now discover I have an infestation. Of fleas, no less. This required yet another trip by sedan to Mr Todd's surgery. This neighbourhood is going to the mange-ridden curs, I tell you.

Rival

2009-12-14T22:00:00.002Z

Huh. It seems I have a rival for SWCTCO's affections. For months now, She has been paying far too much attention to Simon's cat. Or Simon's Cat, as it likes to call itself (note the stupid capital c).

I nipped out earlier to do my business - it was raining, but I was forced to act in a most ungentlemanly manner in order to regain entry. Calling had no effect and the only way I could make my distress heard was to hurl myself at the door and shout loudly. Most undignified. And then, just when I most needed a rubdown with a hot towel and some reassuring words, She ignored me.

It took just seconds to discover Her new object of adoration. Simon's bloody cat. In black and white. On Her computer screen. It seems She would rather watch some ghastly fake chavscum moggy from internetland than be with me - me, whom She used always to call Her Best Boy.

If I see that Simon's cat within sniffing distance of my patch, I shall give him a good seeing to. No, not that sort. The fistipaws sort. My territory appears to be in urgent need of defence. Oh, and can anyone advise on how to make my own film? If you can't beat 'em up...

Rain

2009-07-21T08:56:00.002Z

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

2009-05-18T19:42:00.003Z

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

2009-04-22T17:39:00.001Z

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

2009-04-09T06:09:00.003Z

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

2009-01-25T09:03:00.002Z

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

2009-01-19T18:56:00.002Z

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

2008-12-05T09:39:00.002Z

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.

Tweet tweet

2008-11-04T21:59:00.003Z

Not content with conquering the blogosphere, I decided to take a leaf out of She Who Controls The Can Opener's book and join Twitter.

A wise move, as it turned out. I have already amassed a huge army of ~~serfs~~fans who are ready to obey my every whim and I am now the object of adoration of some very hot and classy young queens. I have lacked female companionship for a while - with any luck, my domination of the tweetopolis shall put an end to that.

I also seem to have acquired a following of influential journalists. Perhaps I shall be offered my own op-ed column in the daily press at last, somewhere I can offer my wisdom to the nation and muse upon all things of importance, such as the ingredients of Whiskas pouches. The salary would be useful too. Living in reduced circumstances is such a bore. And as that tiresome Broccoli woman failed to cast me in the latest Bond film opposite the Ukrainian model and that local Craig tearaway, the extra cash would be handy for hanging out with the A list.

Time to nip out for my bedtime rummage in the flowerbed. Till later, dahlinks!

Abandoned

2008-09-10T10:50:00.003Z

So, ~~the bitch~~She Who Controls The Can Opener is back. She had the temerity to walk out on Sunday lunchtime without so much as a backward glance in my direction (ok, ok, I concede there was a small cuddle) and She only returned at nearly midnight last night. In the interim, some bearded Scouser who said he was a friend and neighbour came in twice to feed me. To show my disdain, I ignored the food and gave him my Look (the one that says "you will so regret this") to let him know my displeasure.

As She had vanished so completely, I was forced to mark my territory again on the doormat. I mean, I had no idea if someone else might move in to replace Her. Now, of course, She is complaining about the smell. Did it occur to Her that this is Her fault entirely for going AWOL?

When She reappeared last night, with yet another bearded male in tow, I overheard some comments about a conference. Surely a bluff. I sat on the top of the stairs and glared at Her. I did relent, a tiny little bit, after She gave me a hug, and deposited some of my pedigree fluff on the calves of Her favourite jeans. But I refused to share Her bed.

Normal service is resuming today. I was ecstatic to be allowed outdoors again after 3 days of imprisonment. However, I'm still making my point by studiously ignoring Her and not jumping on Her desk.

I expect I'll be nicer to Her tomorrow. But only if she gives me hand-prepared caviar for dinner.

In a flap. Not

2008-08-19T22:10:00.002Z

Dahlinks, my apologies for taking so long to put paw to keyboard. Much has happened and I have been, ahem, preoccupied.

The big news, of course, is that She Who Controls the Can Opener forcibly uprooted me in June. Talk about a drop in social circumstances. One minute I was living the high life in many-roomed Victorian mansion of gothic splendour. The next, I found myself positively crammed into a two-up two-down terrace abode some half a mile away. What a comedown. I suppose I should be grateful She did not install us in some ghastly council flat although I hear it wasn't from lack of trying.

So - here we are. It's not too bad, I suppose. But there is no flap. I now find myself in the appalling position of having to beg when I want to go out. And that is positively embarrassing when I want to go about my "business". I am getting used, slowly, to the loss of complete autonomy. That said, the lack of a flap gives rise to opportunities to wind Her up. Take this evening, for example. She left the back door open so I could wander the back garden (I must say, the garden here is definitely superior to the previous one). By the time it got dark, She was whistling frantically for me to come in so She could lock up. Little did she know I'd already sneaked back in some 30 minutes earlier and secreted my personage so cleverly She had no idea. How I tittered as I listened to Her increasingly frantic calls. Eventually, I had to show myself, of course, otherwise I'd never hear the last of it.

It was reminiscent of my Great 3-Day Escape in early July. I went out for a stroll, hopped off the neighbour's shed roof into the alley and took an extended constitutional around my new territory. Just to assert my presence, you understand. Well, some kind soul across the street invited me in for a snack, their hearth was warm and cosy and I just sort of settled in for the duration. It took Her 3 whole days to track me down. Surely if She cared, She would have rescued me sooner. I'm not quite sure why She was distressed when I reappeared. I shall never understand women.

Anyway, I am exhausted now. This journalism lark can be so tiring. More soon, dahlinks - I have much to tell. But now I require sleep and dreams of mice...

Warzone

2008-01-31T18:40:00.000Z

The mansion is turning into a battlefield. Of the pitched variety. A few weeks ago, the House Bitch of Doom had the temerity to attack me outside and sink her evil fangs into my thigh. She had caught me totally by surprise, pouncing from behind a bush.

I suffered the humiliation of a trip to the vet next day, after She Who Controls the Can Opener noticed I had a slight limp. The bastard who mauled me out of my basket and then manhandled me stuck a needle into me then despatched me home with tablets.

I ask you, what dignity is there when She is sticking Her fingers down one's throat twice a day to ensure one has swallowed one's medicine? None.

Upon recovery I declared war on the House Bitch. The day is punctuated by bouts of sprinting around the place in hot pursuit (accompanied by cries of "Oi! Pack it in, you two!" from Her as She tries to work) and standing guard over the food supplies so that the House Bitch will hopefully starve to death. She must surely be seriously regretting the day she tried to take me on. If she thinks some half-breed chav of unknown origin is going to lord it over a pedigree, she is very much mistaken. Only my superb bloodline prevents me from lowering myself to her level.

Battlelines are being continuously redrawn as I strive to maintain my upper hand...

Not with a bang but with a wimp

2007-11-11T14:56:00.000Z

It's been a touch noisy lately round here. From about mid-October onwards, as dusk drew in and I looked forward to my evening meal, one could hear fireworks being let off all around my neighbourhood. She Who Controls The Can Opener was fretting about the effect on my health and threatening to lock me in until after 5 November. You would think she'd have realised by now that such noises do not bother me in the slightest. But then, I've always been a laidback, cool type. It's all part of my superior breeding.

As matters reached a crescendo on Guy Fawkes night, I merely raised an eyebrow then settled back down for another doze. The House Bitch of Doom, on the other hand, was tearing around the mansion like a demented lunatic, getting under everyone's feet and annoying me immensely as her pointless restlessness was disturbing my slumbers. She has no manners and no courage. In fact, she has no anything of merit - she is a chav and a coward. I am being forced to share my living quarters with a wimp.

Rumour has it the House Bitch has reached the last of her 9 lives. If so, I shall be doing my best to ensure that She Who Controls The Can Opener opens her heart and front door to an attractive, aristocratic young lady companion for my good self. We could do with a touch more class around here...

No have ark...

2007-07-21T19:13:00.000Z

It has been a while since I last set paw to keyboard, but the fact is, beloved fans of mine, I have precious little to report. I have been cruelly deprived of all manner of exciting adventures by the simple expedient of the weather.

My life has been hideously restricted by the endless rain over the last 3 months. Normally in summertime I am roaming my territory, flirting with attractive young queens in the neighbourhood and basking in the sunshine in convenient flowerbeds. Alas, this wet summer has put an end to all my favourite pursuits. I have been limited to quick dashes outdoors in between downpours, in order to conduct my, ahem, business, before returning to the drier if duller delights of our fine manor's interiors.

I have grown bored - there is nothing to do except sleep and eat. Even for a lord of leisure such as my good self, such pursuits wear thin eventually. I am seriously considering building an ark so I can sail away across the flooded Cheshire plain to drier and more interesting climes. She Who Controls the Can Opener thinks I am just dozing when, in fact, I am plotting to liberate timber and tools from the Boss so I can build a splendid yacht.

I can see it now - winters in Cannes, moored in the harbour amongst the rich and famous, enjoying the mild Mediterranean climate and dining lady cats of good breeding. By day, I shall laze on my deck, cap tilted at a jaunty angle, dreaming of caviar-flavoured Whiskas and large cigars. In the summers, if the weather is poor, I could go to wherever it is drier. And best of all, I shall be far away from that mangy chav, the House Bitch of Doom.

All I need to do is locate the key to the Boss's workshop...

Queen and Jerry

2007-05-29T20:57:00.000Z

It's been pretty dull round here the last few weeks. It has rained almost the entire month, which frustrates a healthy young tom no end. I resorted to dashing outside to answer calls of nature, but it was far too wet to do anything interesting like patrol the neighbourhood looking for fit young ladies with whom to amuse myself. For the rest of the time, there was little to do except sleep, eat (making sure I got the choicest morsels and leaving only the scraps for the House Bitch of Doom) and pester She Who Controls the Can Opener.

I've decided to become a lap cat and have taken to sitting on Her at all hours, to relieve my boredom. I sit on Her knees while She is trying to write, or on Her chest when She is reading in bed. I like to distract Her when She is trying to concentrate on Eastenders.

But wait! Something finally happened here tonight. The House Bitch of Doom brought a guest into our fine mansion.

The only problem was that it was a mouse. More accurately, an ex-mouse. Expired and fallen out of its nest.

I heard a loud shriek and popped my head around the corner to discover Her in a lather. And the House Bitch gnawing at a rather skinny corpse of a rodent. The Boss arrived quickly and, donning a giant leather gauntlet fit for a falcon, picked up the deceased mouse and removed it. Rumour has it the unwanted guest was tossed into the flowerbed of the Moaning Meldrew next door.

The House Bitch of Doom is in the doghouse (hee hee). She must be desperate if she's supplementing her diet with vermin. Some people round here have no class. Me, I just rolled over and dozed off again... to dream of Whiskas premium chunks.

Cat-astrophe

2007-05-12T21:03:00.000Z

She Who Controls the Can Opener has installed Herself in front of the television and is forcing me to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. I'm a pedigree, for goodness sake. I shouldn't have to put up with such chavvy, low-life trash. At least the Irish commentator is amusing, but really I'd rather watch something more classy.

I do enjoy a good film. I like that Bond one with Blofeld's Persian cat - she is fit. I'd date her. She has breeding. I'm thinking of auditioning for the next Bond film myself and why not. I live in the same town as Daniel Craig was born, I am a Shorthair, just like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat (right county, too!), and I can act.

Just watch my dramatic performances first thing in the morning - I can convince even the meanest Scrooge that I haven't eaten for a whole month, even though I was probably snacking just an hour before She got out of Her bed. I can turn on the emotions when required. And, of course, I'm handsome and therefore leading man material. In fact, I'm expecting that Broccoli person to turn up on my doorstep any day now, waving a contract worth millions and offering me a rider clause that will provide a stunt cat and a year's supply of Whiskas Premium and smoked salmon.

Once I'm an A-list film star, I shall pay some minion to write my blog for all my adoring fans to read.

Books, broadness and two bejailings

2007-04-30T20:14:00.000Z

It has been drawn to my attention that my aunt thinks I ought to write a book. This isn't my real aunt, you understand. As far as I know, she is roaming the hills of Limburg. No, I'm talking about the sister of She Who Controls the Can Opener. Apparently, Aunty Wales thinks I have real literary talent. Hmm... perhaps I should get myself an agent, although at this rate it will take me 10 years to complete a manuscript. And I'll only do it if I get a decent advance. The usual sort of terms - a 10-year supply of Whiskas premium chunks, a personal manicurist to trim my claws and my own desk. I've had enough of sharing the PC with Her.

I've met Aunty Wales a few times. She had the nerve to call me fat. Not once, but several times. I'll never understand why humans think cats don't understand anything they say. I was extremely offended. It's perfectly obvious I'm not fat. I have a broad back - solid proof of my pedigree heritage. We Shorthairs are renowned for our stocky build and soft fur. I have so much fur, I suppose the truly ignorant could be mistaken into thinking I'm a few ounces overweight, but I am NOT fat. I'm well built. I swear I will scratch out the eyes of the next chav that says I'm fat.

That aside, the aunt is ok - she let me sleep on the bed with her when she stayed here and she gave me tummy tickles, so I guess she'll do.

I got locked in twice today. I've been really good too - I haven't put a paw out of line since the last debacle. But first The Boss shut me into the spare room this morning. It was entirely his fault. Honest. I only nipped in for a nose around. And he really should have checked before closing the door behind him. To my horror, I discovered the House Bitch of Doom had sneaked in as well. We were trapped together. I couldn't think of a worse situation to be in (well, I could - I wouldn't fancy my chances against the pitbull belonging to the junkie in the next street). I staked my territory on the bed so the House Bitch was forced to sleep on the floor.

The French Maid who does the cleaning let us out a couple of hours later. I was starving, so I rushed off to the dish for a large snack then strolled up to Her bedroom for a snooze on Her duvet. I spent a pleasant couple of hours dreaming of chasing butterflies and torturing the House Bitch of Doom. When I awoke and strolled back downstairs in search of fresh air and cuddles, I discovered I was locked in again. That French Maid has been told so many times not to shut doors without checking for my presence. I may have to nip him on the ankle when he returns. He may be French but I have far more droit de seigneur than he imagines even the Sun King had...

Breeding will always out.

What an exhausting day I have had. Time for my bed, I think.

Steve McQueen rides again

2007-04-27T15:10:00.000Z

I'm really in the shi-tzu this time... I've definitely developed a taste for patrolling my neighbourhood since the beginning of this year. After all, the house is massive, but the back garden just isn't big enough to contain my wanderlust. The trouble is, people build such massive walls around their properties and forget that as a pedigree British shorthair I only have short legs. It's unfair - I can perform death-defying leaps across alleyways the width of the Grand Canyon and run down a vertical surface the height of the Matterhorn. But my legs aren't long enough to climb up again.

And so it was that things came to pass. She Who Controls the Can-Opener and her bloke decided to go away. To Rome, no less. A city that has thousands of felines roaming the ruins. Why? Aren't I enough company for Her that She has to seek other moggies out? I was more than a tad annoyed. Especially when I discovered that once again, I was going to be left alone with the House Bitch of Doom again. And only the cleaner popping in daily to supply rations. After several days fending for myself and missing the attention, I was bored. So I went for a stroll. Up the wall, across the alley and down into what looked like an interesting backyard. Then I discovered I was stuck, because the wall was too high for my poor little legs.

Time passed and I got cold and hungry. I went and had a yowl at the back door of the house I was visiting but it appeared these neighbours were also away. Perhaps they to had gone to Rome? Whatever, I was alone and nobody seemed to care. Night fell and I hid under some abandoned timber. In the morning, still no one appeared to take pity on my plight. By now, my belly was aching with hunger but I had no means of escape. If I'd had a motorbike, I could have made a ramp with the timber and, like Steve McQueen, roared uphill to freedom and my favourite armchair. But alas, another night passed. I began to worry that the House Bitch of Doom might rub her scent over my territories and sleep in my reserved spots.

Finally, in the middle of the afternoon on the third day of my desperate situation, She Who Controls the Can Opener kicked open the back gate of the garden in which I was trapped. Bruce Lee would have been proud. I was ecstatic to see Her but She was clearly very angry with me. She told me I had ruined Her holiday. Pah! There I was, suffering, and all she could do was complain about being forced to return home early. Turns out the cleaner had reported me AWOL to the vet, the RSPCA, the Missing Pets Bureau and a whole bunch of other authorities, then telephoned Her in Italy.

So, I'm in the shi-tzu. Persona non grata. And now She's threatening to imprison me next time She fancies a trip away. Some place called HMP Cattery. It sounds grim. I shall have to work hard to get back in Her good books again. Or grow some longer legs.

Sex and the single tom

2007-02-22T16:49:00.000Z

The crocuses are pushing up in the front garden. This means spring is in the air and we all know what that means. It's the time when a virile tom's thoughts turn not very lightly at all to finding receptive queens with whom to share one's passion. That excludes me, ever since She Who Controls the Can Opener decided to deprive me of my two veg. It's so not fair! Especially when there are some very attractive young females in my territory. Ok, they don't have my background and breeding, but I wouldn't be averse to slumming it. If I were capable...

The bad news about spring's arrival means that the radiators will probably be turned off soon. The airing cupboard is out of bounds, so finding a suitable warm spot indoors in which to snooze will become increasingly difficult. On the other hand, I have a favourite flowerbed just outside Her office window which is a very pleasant little suntrap.

I have been enjoying an excellent regimen these last couple of weeks. After several months of Whiskas - the sort that come in those plastic foil pouches and contain peas and carrots, which I hate so I spit them on the floor - She was obviously feeling guilty about subjecting me to what was rapidly amounting to a prison diet of unending dreariness. Now I'm feasting on those little square tinfoil dishes of Felix, that contain nice meaty chunks in flavoured aspic.

Stomach replete, I stagger off and somehow manage the leap of Everest dimensions onto Her desk to sleep off the calories.

I've been quite lively though, these last few weeks. When spring is in the air, it's also a good opportunity to dispose of the excess hormones by tormenting the House Bitch of Doom. I've had a few good scraps with her lately and I always win. It's only to expected, given my superior class - she's only a Heinz 57 after all...

The Great Escape

2007-01-06T09:47:00.000Z

Sadly, no one bought me a motorbike for Christmas, but I did manage to break out of Stalag Luft Chester. Not once, but twice!

Sometime in the wee small hours of Friday morning, I decided to roam further afield. This being a posh sort of place, I have two cat flaps, one in each back door. One is currently off-limits, due to the cold weather. The other is my usual exit, giving out onto the back yard. A quick jump and I'm up on the wall and can roam along looking into the neighbours' back yards.

Anyway, Friday morning I went a bit further than usual , just for exploration's sake, and found myself at the front of the street. In our front garden. But I couldn't get back, so I was forced to sit under the tree and wait several hours in the chill night air until She Who Controls the Can Opener finally realised I was "missing in action" and came looking for me.

Boy, I was glad to get back into the warmth and I duly celebrated by stuffing myself with a late breakfast.

This morning, again in the early hours, off I went again... This time, I performed a death-defying leap across the alley that runs between the backs of the houses. I tell you, McQueen would have been proud of me! I must say, the back yards on the other side of the alley aren't half as an interesting, but nevertheless I jumped down for a quick shufti.

Of course, once down, I was stuck and was forced to shelter in some disgusting, ancient privy until She Who Controls the Can Opener came to my rescue, by which time I was muddy, wet, cold and hungry.

I'm slowly warming up again after another hearty breakfast. I think I'll stay in tonight...

Cold

2006-12-15T19:46:00.000Z

Brrrr... winter is drawing in. It's becoming increasingly difficult to find somewhere warm to snooze in the house. I've been forced to grow extra fur to compensate and preserve my core body heat. She Who Controls the Can Opener is now complaining about the amount of fluff I am shedding. Like I can do anything about that. What does She expect? It's alright for Her - if She feels nippy, She can put a cardigan on. I only have one layer.

Sitting on Her desk means being subject to the draught that creeps in under the sash window right next to my favourite sleeping spot. Her bloke understands though, he was kind enough to go out and buy an extra heater for Her office so I don't freeze my... well I was going to say bollocks, but She had them lopped off some years back. Didn't even consult me! Just schlepped me off to the vet and the next thing I know I'm minus two vital bits of my anatomy. How mean is that?

So what's new round here? Well, the snake has gone. Good. It was dead boring. The House Bitch of Doom is still here, more's the pity. Mostly we have an armed truce, but once in a while it's paws at dawn...

Other than that life is an endless round of finding warm places to nap, devising tactics to ensure I always get fed first and letting Her tickle my tummy. I suppose I'm quite fond of Her really - I've started giving Her a daily wash when we're at Her desk. I'm not implying She needs a shower. But a little extra cleanliness doesn't go amiss. Does it?

Abandoned

2006-10-14T08:52:00.000Z

She Who Controls the Can Opener had the temerity to leave me for an entire week while she went swanning off to foreign climes. Even The Boss went, so it was just me and that vile House Bitch of Doom alone in the house. Some French guy came in once a day to feed us, so at least we didn't starve, but I was miserable.

I saw no point in sitting on Her desk as there was no one there to soothe my troubled whiskers. I spent the week moping around the house, eating as much food as possible to annoy the House Bitch, and hunting for butterflies to supplement my diet.

I was relieved when they finally returned. So relieved that I didn't even indulge in a spot of whingeing, as I normally do. I just cuddled up to She Who Controls the Can Opener as I'd been craving her company.

Rumour has it that the other creature that lives in this house - Snake - is moving out tomorrow. Phew! The snake is dead boring - it never does anything except hide in its cave and eat mice - mice, I should point out, that rightfully should be mine. Anyway, it's going at last, which means more mice for me...

Autumn is closing in

2006-09-30T13:43:00.000Z

It's getting harder to find places to bask in sunshine around here. And She Who Controls the Can-Opener hasn't yet bothered to put the central heating back on. It's chilly indoors - I noticed that when she's feeling the nip in the air, she puts a fleece on. I have to make do with my fur - good job there's plenty of it.

She also had the nerve to disappear for a couple of days at the beginning of last week. Some daft conference or other, if I recall correctly. That left The Boss to look after me - he was ok about feeding me regularly. I made sure of that by whining and crying a lot so he wouldn't forget my presence. And I took the opportunity to stir up trouble by picking fights with the House-Bitch of Doom - mainly so I could grab all the food. The Boss soon wised up to that one by feeding us separately. Grrr.

I was glad when she came home and order was restored. I resumed sleeping on her desk while she tries to work - how I hate it when she clutters up my space with dictionaries and other useless printed stuff. What use is to me? I can't read it, it just gets in the way so I can't stretch out properly.

Anyway, She let me sleep on the bed the night she returned. A rare treat. Normally, She shuts the connecting door to the hallway, which stops me sneaking up the stairs at bedtime and installing myself on my special corner of the duvet. I should be allowed on the bed every night, by rights. After all, I'm the alpha cat round here. And if I'm upstairs, the House-Bitch of Doom isn't, so it's a good arrangement. Unfortunately, it's only a good arrangement if I can actually get past the connecting door.

I had my revenge a few days ago when the new cleaner forgot to shut the door - I hid in Her wardrobe for a few hours to give her a fright and ensure I got extra rations and cuddles.

This typing lark is exhausting. Time for a nap and sweet dreams of mice...

Lazing on sunny afternoons

2006-08-06T19:58:00.000Z

It's been a few weeks since I last put paw to keyboard - the heatwave meant I was too exhausted to do anything much beyond eating and sleeping in the flowerbeds. Occasionally, I attempted to rid myself of some of the fluff I've been shedding this summer. It was a losing battle, so I let She Who Controls the Can-Opener use a brush on me. I quite enjoy it secretly, even though I always make a fuss - squirming and wriggling and trying to stroll out of reach. I'd never let Her know that, though.

The other thing that's kept me busy is patrolling my territory - I have to keep rubbing my scent on everything so that the House-Bitch of Doom doesn't delude herself that she's regaining the upper hand. It's a daily round of the kitchen, various reception rooms, doorposts and chair legs.

Luckily, the House-Bitch of Doom has been dissuaded from hanging out in the office, where She Who Controls the Can-Opener works. This means I can sleep on Her desk without interruption from my would-be usurper. Mind you, She has annoying habit of filling my kipping space with various large tomes when She pretends to be earning Her keep. How am I supposed to rest peacefully when there are thesauri and dictionaries blocking my bed? I usually try and kick them on the floor when She does this, although I must admit I am putting myself at risk of eviction.

Some ignoramuses out there are under the misguided impression that She named me after a certain admiral. I can state that this is categorically untrue. Apparently, She's a fan on some daft radio show called The Archers and my name comes from a certain N. Gabriel. I suppose it's better than the one the breeder dumped on me at birth - no one will ever convince me that Barley du Vinclair is anything but poncey. But what no one knows is that my mum called me Brian...

Welcome to my scratching post

2006-06-24T14:20:00.000Z

Hello, I'm Nelson, a blue-tabby-mackerel pedigree British shorthair.

Welcome to my world.

I live in Cheshire, in a large mansion, with She Who Controls the Can-Opener, her bloke and her bloke's cat.

Yes, there's competition in the household. Her bloke's cat is called Cat. How staggeringly original. I prefer to call her the House-Bitch of Doom.

I arrived here 11 months ago and, as everyone who has met me will testify, I'm pretty laid-back and friendly. The House-Bitch of Doom took an instant dislike to me, however, and regularly hisses and spits at me. I've tried making friends, I've tried ignoring her... to no avail. She's an aggressive nightmare. Occasionally, I retaliate by chasing her off when I get really fed up, but I had my real revenge by taking over all her territory. I control every room in the house, bar the spare bedroom, which I've generously let the House-Bitch have. Oh, and I've appropriated all her toys too, such as the catnip boxing glove.

It's a cushy life here, better than when I lived in the Netherlands where I was born. She Who Controls the Can-Opener lets me go out here. I even have two cat-flaps, one for each back door. In the Netherlands, Her miserable ex would never let me go outside. So this is definitely a better set-up. I can come and go as I please, I have lots of nice toys, I sometimes get to sleep in the master bedroom (banned to the House-Bitch) and I even have my own blog!

I'm tired now, it's definitely time for another nap.

More later...