1. When worming multiple cats do the adults first. The youngsters have no idea of what's going on and sit quite happily as their siblings are dosed.

Fatnip, however, reached light-speed leaving the lounge and Beast charged off in pursuit. Freeman, Hardy and Willis took their medicine without a fuss; Newbie struggled a bit but only because he wanted to get back rough-housing with his new best friend, Hardy. Demi and Dru too succumbed with little protest. Then the fun began...

Having Buster at home, resting a bad leg in the front bedroom, meant there was one less to do at the Shed later on. I mistook his affability for co-operation and found he wasn't so handicapped he couldn't slash my palm with speedy efficiency. Wound cleansed, I searched for the vanished Fatnip and Beast. Logic dictated they had to be under the bed. Getting Beastie Boy was easy, he loves the bathroom for some reason and I can't open the door for him muscling through. So...I opened the door and voila! Dragged out from behind the loo and plonked down on the scales so I could decide his dose, he vented his displeasure by farting vilely. This is one smelly mammal: when I was younger we had a boxer dog whose olfactory assaults could quell prison riots. In the noxious stakes he was a mere amateur. The Beast beats all in quantity and "quality".

Now for Fatnip lurking beneath the bed with his back to the wall. From past experience he's knows I'm too bulky to squeeze underneath and I can't reach him from the sides. My choices: spraying him with water, moving the bed, tricking him with food, or waiting. The first would just aggravate him, the second me, the third all the others who'd expect food as well. Waiting it was, then.

About three hours later, no doubt rested from a good sleep, he appeared very casual-like in the lounge whereupon he was grabbed and dumped on the coffee table. His dose was already prepared, the syringe dispenser at hand. He balked at the sight and there was a brief wrestling match which I won despite him being very hard to scruff. This is because he doesn't have one: the others are possessed of enough loose skin to do this. Fatnip has a roll of solid muscle padded with fat which passes for his nape. It took a bath towel to subdue him: wrapped and livid, he had no choice but to suck it down. Nine down, n-n-nineteen to go!

2. When building anything, in this case flat-pack furniture, bear in mind cats have no concept of "spectator sports". What they have is a strongly-developed sense of "audience participation". I'd bought a large wooden chest to supplement my other large wooden chest of rare and collectable books. I'd had it a while but finally got round to putting it together. The packaging had already caused great excitement and was well-shredded by the time I got to it. Fatnip in particular had taken to running into the lounge, attacking it furiously and charging off upstairs.

I opened it, removed anything small/vital, and sat down with the instructions. I removed Demi from the instructions, Beast and his sidekick Willis from the box, Newbie from my tools. I counted the nails and screws out on top of the footstool, removing Dru four times. I put these back in their bag, a smart move as her fifth jump landed her exactly where they had been.

Putting it together was even easier than the plans implied, something that always worries me. I'm no dab hand at this sort of thing. Wallpapering - ha! Trying to wallpaper the bedroom caused the first rift in my marriage. The hardest part was the lid, which really needed another adult and certainly not eight cats. When finally screwed and hammered into place I left two of the idiots inside - and why not? They were happy in there...

3. After carrying out a major cosmetic alteration in your appearance, do not be disappointed or even surprised that your usually adoring and attentive family pay not the slightest bit of notice. I went into the bathroom Sunday evening looking very ZZ Top and came out twenty-five minutes later sporting a fat goatee. "Ta-da!" I said to the mob on the landing. "Feed us," they said.

Returning the recuperated Buster to the Shed caused chaos. He'd only been away for three days but in that time had convinced himself he was the only cat in existence. Worse still, the others seemed to have forgotten he'd ever existed. I tried speaking softly then speaking softly carrying a big stick (the broom); then it was speaking sharply and employing the big stick. Definitely Bank-I-Moon time...

The sale date has been arranged for the 27th February, so by the time you read this the deed will have been done - or the deeds if you like. Fortunately, the new owner goes on holiday immediately afterwards so I've some breathing space on moving the Shed-Dwellers. What hasn't helped is the buyer bringing the date forward by a week from 5th March. Losing a week of preparation time is bad enough, but when you haven't even started your preparations it leap-frogs drama and heads straight for crisis. Bonne courage, mes braves, aux barricades!

Tim Hurrell is a Brit living in the Poitou-Charente area of France. He's the confidante to seventeen (or so) cats, most of whom have been rescued. Tim's been battling bureaucrats to set up a cattery (a feline hotel) in his area. If successful, he wanted to expand it to include a rescue, rehab/re-home operation. The name is Maison Miaow, but construction has stopped and the property is about to be sold.