Good morning fellow-Gourmands, a cautionary tale this time, about how a fondness for certain foods, can bring about (temporary) disgrace.

Now, most of the other cats here, have never learned any of the golden rules of life on the streets, rules which, if I didn't write the book, back in the day, I at least live by, for they are so ingrained into my Igorhood, that they are second nature. I refer of course to that golden rule: 'Eat it like you've stolen it', (which of course, you probably have).

Take Chester, totally avid for the scent of the steak morsel, but paralysed when given it, a whole tentative dumbshow of sniff, lick, tiny bite, drop, sniff again.... you get the picture. In contrast, even though sans teeth, I WOLF IT DOWN! and follow through with a vigorous check of the surrounding environs that I've not missed a morsel. And so it was that in that secondary sweep, emboldened by the juicy taste of sirloin (I think if I was ever to be knighted, for services to proper cat etiquette, I might be given the title 'Sir Loin', but I digress) and temporarily confused, I may have bitten Foster Mum's little toe, in a totally innocent way, mistaking it for a tasty little niblet of meat (which, I contend, it actually is, and those that don't want their feet bitten should, probably, learn to wear socks at teatime, and at least gain the semblance of civilisation....)

Anyhow, there was shouts, alarums and recriminations, and I slunk back to my cat bed, aware that a few hours were to have to pass until I was 'Dear old Igor' again...