There have been cats in this house since 1997. We made it a policy to adopt or foster, from our local Cats Protection homing centre, cats other people tended not to want because the moggies were old, or missing limbs or eyes, or had other infirmities.

Our first cat was Misty. She was a lovely silver-grey tabby, but was withdrawn and aggressive. Paul spent weeks, during his lunch hour, visiting the shelter to gain Misty’s trust. It transpired she was deaf, and the other cats in the shelter would bully her. It was no surprise, then, she had gone into her shell. We were allowed to home her, and once she was here she blossomed into a beautiful furry friend. Her purring rattled tea cups!

Eventually, as such things go, Misty died. Almost immediately, we went back to the adoption centre “to be chosen again”. This time, an absolute unit called Tom stole our hearts. He was a large black and white cat, with front legs like a British Bulldog, with his back legs bringing up the rear like a pantomime cow. One eye had been lost, but he could see well enough with the remaining one. He was also diabetic, and needed insulin injections. He also made it quite plain he liked the look of us, and he duly found his way to our home.