Industrious

Fing has has a very busy night.

Once again he got into the food cupboard and hooked out the dog Iams, leaving a cascade on the floor. This time we have an interesting twist as Trotter went downstairs to see what the noise was and bought the bag of Iams back to bed for a midnight feast.

The small grainy nuggets that he missed were to be found by Martha when she woke up, embedded in the backs of her legs and up her nose.

'FING!' she cried in despair.

But Fing had remained in the cupboard, where with sheer brute force and bloody ignorance, had forced the lid off the tupperwear container filled with cat biscuits and had gorged until he was almost as fat as a boa constrictor full of sheep.

So fat that he fell asleep and stayed in the cupboard where Martha found him by accident when she went in for a tea bag.

'FING!' she screamed.

Sometimes I wonder what we have done to deserve all of this naughtiness.

Hasn't that cat always had everything he always wanted?

Manicures and peticures, dancing lessons and trips to Vienna?

He did want a copy of the National Dictionary of the National Biography but we had to put our feet down somewhere.