This morning I turned on the shower and nothing but cats came out.

Small droplets of perfectly formed cat.

The taps ran hot and cold. The window opened onto a relatively normal setting: a drizzly morning in midwinter England. One fact stood out from this otherwise normal morn, that is namely, that my bath tub was full of cats. Dozens of mewing, malicious, mucky coloured moggs had somehow come to be and somehow carried the gentle pungent odour of banana. There was nothing for it. Having quickly closed the bathroom door, I opened the medicine cabinet and doused them in mouthwash, asprin, diuretics and anything at hand. Needless to say, the plan was flawless until the point of opening the drug storage facility. For as soon as the felines became aware of the freely available 'food', they dispatched of everything in their way, myself included, and began ferociously to feast upon the newly available chemicals. This was trouble. I knew it. So did the cats. It was as though these wee beasts had stored up so much michief in their transition from being freely roaming animals to suddenly arriving, by some strange transcendental process during my morning constitutional, that they had decided to wreak havoc upon known civilization by means of narcotics. Not that I collect illicit substances but the ingredients lists of some drugs are only decipherable to an ancient greek philosopher who has just spent the past week trapped down a mine shaft and has a lot of time on his hands.

Now, instead of doing the sensible thing and plugging in the transmogrifier to turn those little monsters into coffee and croissants I did what every man on earth, to his shame, has done once in his life time. I ran. I didn't look back. I denied all knowledge. When my sister entered that room I have no recollection of anything happening but have subsequently been told that leaping from a second storey building and hitting the ground still running is quite an impressive sight. She still winces whenever she sees a moggie.