The plans for the new Maison Miaow look good on paper (there's a feeling of deja vu writing that) so all I need to do is actually build the damn thing..

That and find someone with a big enough trailer to move the panels to my place. Two are 4m x 2m and the other two are 3m x 2m, all are made from steel and far too impractical to carry far. The larger pen, which is 4m x 3m x 2m, will be in the courtyard and linked to a smaller pen, 3m x 3m x 2m, on the ground floor of the renovation project that backs onto my property. This is connected bya ramp to their sleeping quarters on the first floor; this is 3m x 2.5m x 2.5m. It sounds more complicated than it actually is - what will complicate more are my dubious handyman skills. To me the letters DIY only cause a squabble in Scrabble.

Gus's recovery continues slowly; he's still very snuffly and wheezes away like some ancient steam train. He might well be back to the vet if he doesn't improve further. Evelyne filled in some of his background: his mother was a chocolate-point Birman, his father just passing through. As for being feral I think I've been sold a pup! If ever he was wild it was so long ago he's completely forgotten how a "chat sauvage" should be. Impossible to part from my legs in the kitchen; monopolising my lap in the lounge; loudly disapproving of anything that distracts from the attention he feels is his due. There's only one glitch: grooming. He won't suffer his head, belly, legs, or tail to be touched at all... and, as he's extremely shaggy, he needs a really good going over. At the first hint of the brush straying those bloody great paws sweep into action. Also...well, his fur his taking a long time to grow back from his de-balling. Let's just say that there are better sights first thing of a morning."

"He's in my lap at the moment having just rolled off the printer in his sleep and given himself a scare. He buried his head deep into my armpit and butted relentlessly until I was forced to stop typing and fuss him. He has a tendency to fall off things in his sleep just as Clod had: a few evenings have been punctuated by a frantic scrabbling then a thump from behind the sofa!

Newbie has done his bit today as well: I was wondering if he's ever going to get any bigger when he produced a stupid stunt liable to ensure he won't get any older if he repeats it. He attempted a massive jump for the chairside coffee table to the workstation using dictionary as a launch pad. This slid from under him as he leapt and knocked my favourite cup, full of freshly-brewed tea, into my lap and every other available surface. The cup smashed when it hit the floor after I tried a massive jump of my own. He's upstairs now brawling with the others, scared by the commotion and determined to show it!

In preparation for moving the Shed-Dwellers, I unbalanced them by changing both their type of litter and adding variety to their biscuits. Their beloved fish croquettes now have meat and fowl flavours mixed in. You'd have thought this smorgasbord of salmon, trout, beef, rabbit, chicken, and turkey would have them drooling with delight. Has it b***s! Grateful? No. Contemptuous? Oh, yes. On hunger strike? Might as well be.

My theory is that the popularity of the fish croquettes is due to their size. Being smaller, the beasts are able to cram more of them into their maws and therefore a better option in the scrum that follows their arrival in the food bowls.

The litter is another bone of contention: swopping from "gravel" to a bio-degradable wood pellet version has proved as acceptable as exploring one's nasal cavities at the dining table. I will persevere as this stuff is sooooooooooo much better. The more solid waste can be flushed and the rest - it breaks down into sawdust - can be scattered or burnt. Anything beats lugging evil-smelling black sacks to the municipal dump - an exercise which strains friendships no end as not having a car means I have to rely on favours. The bin-men won't take the sacks from the house, though they take Evelyne's from up the road - not that her being French and me being English has anything to do with it (much).

And that I believe, is about it for this month. The cardiologist said there is nothing wrong with my heart; the radiologist said there is nothing wrong with my thyroid. My doctor said my blood pressure was high - presumably this is a result of telling someone who's already stressed they have heart and thyroid problems. The neurologist is next - this won't have a happy ending.

On the whole, I'd rather be a cat...even "Gus, the baboon-bumm'd boy!"

Tim Hurrell is an English expat living in the Poitou-Charentes region of Western France. He regularly pulls his underwear over his jeans* to rescue the local stray cat population, of which he has 29 in various stages of age and health. He continues despite poor judgement and worse luck - occasionally he's able to blame someone else. Plans to open to a boarding cattery to supplement the rescue work are temporarily on hold. He's writing a book, looking for a woman, and mutters darkly about not buying that micro-brewery when he had the chance. *think Superman's costume...