January 1st

Woke up feeling unwell, unaccountably thirsty and with a thumping headache. It must be a New Year's bug of some sort. A pity after my being in such excellent form at last nights party at the vicarage. I have vague recollections of stretching my poetic talents to their limit.

Intending to remain in bed to rest my exhausted brain, I reached for a glass of water and was surprised to find the jug empty. Seeking to remedy this myself I climbed out of bed, but was further surprised to find my foot planted centrally in a large puddle of something cold and viscous. My surprise peaked when, inspecting the substance, I found that it both looked, smelled and - after dipping in an exploratory finger -tasted like vomit.

Obviously there was nothing for it but to call mother.

As usual mother took her time. Whilst waiting I kept my vomit dipped foot raised, balancing like a stork, and took stock of devastation which had been visited on my room. Clothes were strewn everywhere, mother's copy of Tennyson had been ripped in half and, in the corner, there was an ominous dark patch on the carpet.

Clearly The Cat had decided to try and ruin 2017 for me.

By the time mother shuffled in my standing leg was beginning to wobble.

"Mother, either The Cat goes or I do," I barked.

Mother's flaws are numerous. However it would be ungentlemanly to list them here, suffice it to say that when it comes to the conduct of her beloved Cat she can be as blind and stubborn as a blinkered old mare. This I explained to her in suitably forceful language. A discussion followed, during which - detective like - I explained The Cat's likely movements.

Driven by malice and intending to wreak havoc the cat wandered into my room, whereupon, having gorged itself earlier, it was struck by nausea. Thinking always to do its worst by me it staggered over to my bed and vomited. After this it experienced a sudden thirst. Gleefully it drank all my water and proceeded to drag my neatly folded clothes around the bedroom. Eventually growing bored, it spied mother's copy of Tennyson and, focusing all of its spite, it ripped the book in half. By now the stolen water was seeking egress, prompting the cat to urinate copiously in the corner of the room, whereupon it slunk out, no doubt to commit further evil deeds elsewhere.

Case closed.

When mother wondered aloud at how a cat could manage to tear a large hardback book in half I explained that it probably hated poetry with all of its being. She disagreed and instead made a vulgar accusation. In response I pointed out that I never exceed my tolerance for alcohol and my conduct last night was almost certainly exemplary.

Mother scoffed and left before I had time to ask for a boiled egg. As a rebuke I resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed, sipping water with the curtains closed. This I duly did, thus proving my point.

To be continued...