IF by any chance the next compilers of the Oxford Dictionary should ever ask me for the definition of a feral cat, I would probably describe it as a cat living independently in the countryside and shying away from human contact' - I would then offer to post it where the sun doesn't shine out of Simon the mad he/she cat.

Simon has understood the bit about shying away from people. It hisses and spits at anybody except Sue that comes within 10 yards of it, but it contrarily likes the human contact part when it comes to food time. In fact it could eat for France, and in a country of gastronauts that is some doing. It will eat a whole tin of cat food and some biscuits and wash it all down with half a pint of semi-skimmed. Whatever happened to cat the hunter, living off field mice and the occasional vole? This cat has shunned the fresh for the pre-packaged, and I am paying the price for it.

To make matters worse, the gender-challenged cat also seems to have gone in for a bit of rather unpleasant rural incest and produced a litter of kittens with the help of one of the members of a former litter. Not surprisingly, one of the three kittens has come out a bit strange and appears to be partially blind, earning it the name of Blind Lemon Pie and some extra vitamins and eye drops from the vet - more expense.

Simon has educated them from a very young age that Hotel Trev & Sue is the best in town, and has promptly weaned them straight on to the finest offerings from Whiskas, Purina et al - more expense.

Constant daily visits down to the lower garage and not a few nocturnal feedings of fluffy bundles is all very well when it is Sue dealing with it. I just have to nod my head and agree how cute they are. All that changed for a few days when Sue had to go back to the UK for a funeral.

That left me in charge of vitamin tablets, drops, biscuits, milk, cat food, trying not to step on things about the size and shape of a small slipper (now, there's an idea), and go to work and try to feed myself. I had to get up half an hour earlier than normal, and then one morning I nearly forgot to feed our own cats.

Why can't they be normal feral cats like all the other zillions of wild cats that litter the French countryside, living in drainage ditches and often ending up as roadkill? It seems the only choice is going to be to turn the young apprentices into domesticated cats, neuter the little b..s, and then go for the prize. I am determined that Simon is going to have his gender assignation assigned once and for all. I have already spoken to the vet, and as long as I can trap it, he/she will tie those tubes for good. More expense, but at what price? An extra half-hour in bed?