NOTE TO THE CHUFFIN CAT: the camera on the rear of my car is to enable me to reverse my vehicle safely, thus avoiding any hidden obstacles.  It is not your personal video camera, for you to film yourself cavorting about across the drive.  I do not need to see your disapproving face glaring at me as I concentrate on my reversing manoeuvres.

“Keep driving Mum, she’ll move out of the way,” advises son no 2.

Will you heck as like.

I have to stop when all I can see are 2 lynx-tipped ears defiantly twitching at the bottom of the camera screen.  Imagine if my last image of you was your face splattered on the screen.  Or even worse (and more likely) your fluffy arse squashed against the screen.   Seriously.

So instead you just sit there, completely immersed in your own self-importance, knowing that all the car occupants’ eyes are glued to the camera screen, staring at you.  Yes, you.  Finally, the attention you deserve.  A modern day stand-off: a tonne of mechanised metal versus a fat-arsed fluffy cat.

I send son no 2 to forcibly remove you from view – such a brave boy, approaching you minus gauntlets and riot gear.  You eye him up and down stubbornly, always making sure that your best side is captured by the camera.  Then you skedaddle.  Hurrah!

Son no 2 gets back in the car just in time to watch you hurtle back across the camera screen again.

I sound the horn … and you start to tap dance in time to the noise, still in front of the camera.  Next it’s the goose step, then a hop, skip and jump complete with jazz paws and sparkly teeth, to and fro, to and fro.  All with your face turned towards the camera.  I am tempted to turn off the engine and abandon the car in the middle of the street, but you know perfectly well that I won’t do that.  You know because we have this entire rigmarole every single time I reverse into our driveway.  Much to your absolute delight.

Finally you exhaust your repertoire.  You reluctantly turn away from the camera and deposit your rear end on the ground.  I can almost see you gritting your teeth as you flatten your ears and raise your nose in the air.  But I am still unable to reverse … why?  Because you may have removed your fat furry body from causing an obstruction, but in doing so you have now stretched your tail across the corner of the driveway.  Much as I find you the most exasperating sod of a cat, I really don’t want to steamroller your tail.

I groan and lean forward to rest my head on the steering wheel.  Never have I known such an infuriating feline.  Son no 2 hops out of the car again in what appears to be another attempt to remedy the situation.  “Mum, she’s gone!” he shouts.

Then I hear another commotion: as I lift my head and rest my gaze upon the screen once again, I’m not greeted by either end of the chuffin cat.  Instead, I’m greeted by not one but two goofy faces – sons no 2 and 3, blowing raspberries and gurning for the camera.  Give me strength.  I’m not sure which is worse: gurning boys or the cat’s arse.  Either way I’m not going to reach my much-needed cup of tea any time soon.  Next time I should bring a flask with me, perhaps even a picnic or a sleeping bag.  Then again, the chuffin cat would probably only monopolise that too.