a fluffy piece in which we meet Relly's cats.

If it wasn't for the fact I get married in a month I'd happily be a spinster with cats. I have two already. Fizz is 10 months old, a cream and brown flecked tabby with go faster stripes and a head for heights. Emily is about 3, and is a big fat black and white tea cosy with a rattling sinus when she sleeps. She lives to eat and sleeping is a good pastime to, well, pass the time between the fricassee of rabbit and best tender lamb.

My cats live well. They live a life that men slave 60 years for (or 10 in the city). Their food is brought to them, regularly, its always the best available and there's always plenty of it. They cycle between the squidgy sofa cushions, the window sill sun spots, the bed and under the desk. Occasionally this is broken up by a snooze on the fax machine.

Fizz intersperses this with the gentleman's sports of hunting, fishing and shooting - the toy mice, the food out of nearly closed drawers and 'around the flat at high speed' respectively; Emily is how I imagine Queen Victoria was in the Brighton pavilion, ie, available for consultation on matters of state only. As lowly commoners and household staff we do not have the opportunity to explore her opinions on the current affairs of the day but we are granted an audience to tickle the royal belly if Fizz isn't too close by.

Fizz is, in many ways, the thorn in Emily's side. Sometimes literally if we can accept the claw as a suitable thorn substitute. She likes a good fight and tumble with Emily. Emily likes peace. However they do curl up together in a chair and they seem to gossip about goings on. My partner once remarked how nice it is that they live lives seperate to ours. We can be sat on the sofa watching telly, coaxing a purr from Emily, and Fizz will skip past travelling from the study to the kitchen glancing over as she goes to confirm our presence.

They do both have a habit of skulking in cupboards and sometimes springing from tumble dryers and baths, although Emily's 'stealth' days are somewhat over. Unless disguised as a bean bag with ears it is hard to imagine where lumbering sloth will become a skill in the battle against the mighty Fizz for the 'top off the milk'.

As you might have guessed I'm somewhat fanatical about my feline friends and I make no apology for it. They might disregard our hard work, certainly I hear no cries of delight ellicited from the 'season's choice' limited edition flavour of Sheba (creamy chicken and tender asparagus) and they might hog the best spot on the sofa but at least this is consistent. If you sent your cat an invite to your wedding you know that it would regard it with lofty dismiss. It is, after all, not a rubber mouse. The hard bit is when some of your human pals do the same - 34 rsvp's missing with 2 days to the deadline left! Perhaps I should have included a rubber mouse?