The Rough Cats get an evening hand-out of whatever is the cheapest cat food I can find: since nothing has taken us to the farmer’s shop where you can buy a 25-kilo sack of the stuff, I have a small sack-ette from a supermarket of something which promises nothing and cost something like 73p a kilo. I put some out this evening, and when I turned round, there was Miss Kit, who gets fed on something infernally expensive called Hills Science Diet which you have to buy from the vet, nose down in the griblets. Lust for variety? A taste for junk food? But the speed at which she was eating suggested that the stuff wasn’t particularly nice: I’m inclined on the whole to think that the story is less about junk food than about saying: See. I am smaller than any of you, but if I want to have a go at your tea before you get it, who’s going to stop me? The answer, inevitably, was no-one. Too near the back door, of course, and a potential human rescue mission. A Fillan looked on seething, a couple of Colmans kept their distance — Miss Kit ate on till she had made her point, then strolled away. If she intends to be sick, I do hope she does it outside.