Model

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!

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

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

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

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

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.