Cake

14 hours of solid bumpy slow-wave and spikey REM sleeps, all with Her Catness in close attendance. 8 hours on the sofa, 6 hours in bed, with juniper pickled herring and a meltingly ripe persimmon in between. These foods are a match made in heaven. For some obscure reason the kiddos won't kiss me after pickled herring.

The giant bumper bag of Cat crunchies has had to go in the cupboard to dissuade feline attention. We've had problems before. When I wake, She's up patting my legs, gazing wistfully in my eyes while mewling piteously; the only time She stoops so low. I don't like to overfill Her bowl because spills attract the dreaded black beetles and their disturbingly oversized larvae. Luckily, She is satisfied by a shake of the still-closed Cat Fud container over the bowl. Thus She and I are locked in a Pavlovian behaviour where I am trained to supply Her with noise at regular intervals. After a snack at the full bowl, She'll resume bird surveillance stakeout at the windowsill.

For your admiration, here is H.'s wedding cake for David and Alex, topped with her exquisite edible floral sculptures. The cake itself was quite delicious- something that could sustain you for days up a mountain when the weather closed in, stuffed full of cranberries, blueberries, cherries, sultanas, hazelnuts, walnuts. She also bakes a mean scone.

But tragic news re the cashmere hat left on the bus last week. Some rotter stole it, for it didn't make it to Lost Property. I was quite prepared to pay the £2 redemption fee, for not only was it light, soft and warm with a silly pompom on the crown, but also a 40th birthday present. Have had to resort to the second string hat, also with silly pompom, but of ordinary, scratchy wool. To the cashmere hat thief; I'm looking out for you, pal, and will hunt you down like the dog you are. Don't mess with my hats.