Keogh, our pampered new cat, wakes me each morning by pouncing on my head, fleeing from the bedroom before I can take revenge. This brings howls of laughter from family members. She has been bought a scratching post, but prefers to sharpen her claws by leaping on my lap and digging in. This brings howls of laughter from family members. More so if I cry out in pain. The moggy, bought as a vulnerable, fluffy kitten but now showing all the vulnerability of a Bengal tiger, has also been known to wait in ambush behind dense foliage, striking out as I head up the drive. "She’s not the kind of cat that likes a lot of fuss," noticed Julie as the wild animal sank its teeth into my hand. "No," I agreed. "She’s more the kind of cat that likes to draw blood." Julie and Joe insist the pet is playing. I insist she wants to kill me and eat my dinners. I sleep with the bedroom door closed, fearing she’ll go for the jugular. Last week I had the last laugh. I took the cat to be spayed. The vet’s assistant issued tannoy messages to pets not their owners, which was a tad misguided. Our cat only responds to food or an expanse of unprotected flesh. And then savagely. "Keogh Lockley, Room One please," ordered the metallic voice. I went, stressing to the gathered pet owners my name was Mike. It could’ve been worse. We wanted to call the cat Willow. I felt for Goebels Watkins. He had gerbils. "Keogh’s been very brave," cooed the assistant when I returned to collect our cat. "But I’m afraid she’ll be a little subdued for the next few days." Great news. It’ll give my wounds time to heal. "Did they have to shave off so much of her hair?" shrieked Julie when I returned with the feline patient. "I thought they’d do keyhole surgery." Good point. I get on best with our savage cat when there’s a door between us. Within a day, however, Keogh was beginning to show signs of recovery. "She’s on the mend," sighed Julie, "but I’ll be a lot happier when she’s strong enough to sink her teeth into your scalp again." Yesterday morning I let out a blood-curdling scream from the bedroom. "Mom," shouted our son, "the cat’s recovered." In my salad days, when I was green with youth, I lurched from one party to another. I’ve still got the Tupperware items purchased during those wild nights. Tupperware parties are not as popular now. People just aren’t prepared to travel miles to look at a plastic sandwich box anymore, which is a terrible indictment on society. They’d rather drink and have sex. Their loss. I’ll never forget the "‘buzz" of waiting for the hostess to unveil the next Tupperware item. Would it be a set of egg cups? Saucers, perhaps? Maybe the big one – a Tupperware picnic box? I was such a Tupperware party animal I bought a Tupperware box to keep my Tupperware boxes in. Her-over-the-road used to be a Tupperware hostess, but she jacked it in because they were attracting the wrong types. "Into drugs and violence?" I asked. "Even worse," she confided. "Into Royal Doulton." Beware wives of Salop! I’ve been aware for some time the wife has had a "thing" for suave Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho, aka The Special One. Such is life. I’ve had a thing for Pan’s People go-go dancer Babs. And my thing for Babs is longer than her thing for Jose. I don’t feel threatened by it. Jose’s hardly likely to open the allotment society show or pop into our farm shop for organic carrots. The chances of the two meeting are remote, though now the Portugese soccer supremo no longer holds the lucrative position of Chelsea boss, he may be tempted to "‘guest" at our annual greased pig wrestling tournament, which attracts the cream of the greased pig wrestling fraternity. I think he’d be good at it. Julie, incandescent with rage over Jose’s departure, feels there is now "‘no one worth looking at" in the premiership. This is a terrible slight on rugged Sir Alex Ferguson, portly Martin Joel and Arsene Wenger, not to mention our own Steve Bruce. "I wouldn’t kick Jose out of bed," trilled She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. If she did, he’d only writhe on the floor until she got red carded. I’ve pointed out there are things I can do which Mourinho can’t, and vice versa. Both my thumbs are double-jointed, for a start, and I can burp to order. Really loud ones. I can’t speak Portugese, but, then, he had a headstart. He is one. Mourinho, on the other hand, can probably tuck his shirt in his trousers. It’s all about what a woman looks for in a man, really. Last night Julie wrote an angry letter to Chelsea’s billionaire owner Roman Abramovich. "What have you done?" she scrawled, the curt note smudged by tears. "The housewives of Shropshire will never forgive you." Those words will haunt the Russian oil magnate as he attempts to relax on one of his many luxury yachts, I fear. I expect a dramatic U-turn. She also wrote a missive to Mourinho. "The housewives of Shropshire are behind you," it stated. If that isn’t an incentive to leave the country, nothing is. Chewing over a problem My teeth are in such poor condition, I pleaded for something to numb the pain after being handed the dental bill. The cavities – there are 15 of them – don’t hurt, but food is getting trapped in them, said the dentist while removing a chicken leg. I kept it for later. There is considerable staining, she added. "On the front teeth?" I asked, a tad concerned. "Actually, I was looking at your shirt." There are so many holes, the dentist took pictures. She wants to put them on a website popular with potholers. I’d have gold fillings, but feel it’s somewhat vulgar to possess more bling than a pimp. I strongly believe the National Health Service should pay for my teeth. There’s an NHS dentist in Oldham, I’ve been told, and if I’m prepared to queue for three weeks, there’s a remote opportunity he’ll look at me. Looking at my teeth will cost, however. Failing that, there’s an old bloke in our parish who does things with cows’ teeth. A few desperate locals have enlisted his help. You can tell his patients. They chew food for 30 minutes, regurgitate it, then chew again. They can really bring a dinner party down. The dentist’s drill I don’t mind, it’s that "sucking" thing the assistant holds that frightens me. Twice she caught my tongue and it was like watching an angler trying to reel-in a conga eel. "You grind your teeth during moments of anxiety, don’t you, Mr Lockley?" observed the dentist. I told her I did and asked if anything could be done. "In the short-term, most definitely," she insisted. "We won’t show you the bill until the very last moment." | 
