Aww look, it's Amelie with her favourite cuddly toy...


Or 'Chloe' as Lisa and I like to call her. It's not every cat that's happy to be pinned to a bed for half an hour by the toddler equivalent of Hulk Hogan. And Chloe's no exception. Unfortunately she gets no say in the matter.

Before Amelie learnt to walk, the only people chasing Chloe were the paparazzi, but a lot's changed since then. Over the past year, she's been knocked about, then swept off her feet, and got a bit carried away when she least expected it. In the last few weeks however, Amelie's taken the hero-worship to a whole new level. Frankly the girl's obsessed. She spends half her life throwing her arms around Chloe and telling her she's "wonderful", "super" and "a lovely pussycat". If she can't hug her within two minutes of getting up in the morning, we have to declare a state of emergency.

She's also appointed herself official guardian of all things cat-related, as a result of which I've come close to having stand-up rows with my two-year-old daughter, who insists that Chloe's not being fed enough, needs more stroking, and really should be carried everywhere. I've had to resort to putting more biscuits in the cat bowl, just to get Amelie off my back.

We even had a five minute debate yesterday about whether Chloe wanted to be put on the table. Amelie said she did. I said she didn't. And despite me offering a wealth of evidence to the contrary, including pointing out the way she was running in the opposite direction and hiding under the bed, Amelie won the day. Two minutes later, she was getting a fireman's lift onto the furniture.

So after a month of incessant stalking, Chloe needs a holiday. And as luck would have it, she's going to stay with my parents for a few days tomorrow. Unfortunately Amelie's going with her. And probably carrying her all the way. We're shipping them both out so that we can escape down the coast for a few days. My prostate's been inflamed again since Monday, and I've spent the week feeling as rough as a bag of course sandpaper, so it's either Eastbourne or the doctor. Frankly there was only one choice. My doctor doesn't do a full English breakfast.