Jos Biggs has trouble with Mr Tommy Fluffipants. ( the cat ) That rain on Friday night! I don’t think I’ll bother to water the garden today! I hate to think how Mr Tommy Fluffipants would manage if he lived in England - he’s afraid of rain! The rain was preceded by some minor rolls of thunder - Mr Fluffipants is even more afraid of thunder - he crouched down flat on the floor, squeaking like a falsetto mouse. I offered him sanctuary on my lap, but he fled the scene, stuttering out something about Not Safe, Lightning Strikes and me not wearing rubber soled Wellies. Intent on an evening of mental torpidity I settled on the recliner sofa to watch telly. Suddenly I became aware that the sofa was moving - my bottom was on the receiving end of a gentle but persistent shoving. An earthquake? An extremely large spider, or other such insect, within the sofa? My imagination? No, Mr Fluffipants had somehow got himself inside the very structure of the sofa. Fortunately he got himself out, and disappeared until bedtime, when he reappeared, crawling along the floor on his fat belly and emitting a whole symphony of squeaks. Normal bedtime procedure is: Jos in her bed, Si in her bed, Tommy outside, anywhere except the bedroom - he’s not allowed in the bedroom as he can’t behave respectfully towards his mother, Si. I looked at the pathetic and very vocal lump of fur on the bedroom floor and decided that it would be cruel to banish him in his current state of abject terror, so I let him stay. No sooner was this decision made than he arrived on the bed with eyes as large a saucers and begged sanctuary. His mother was furious at this invasion of her personal private space, but I assured her that it would only be until it stopped raining, so we reached some kind of accord and I went to sleep. During the night I woke. It had stopped raining; Mr Fluffipants had resumed his normal portly proportions and was sleeping the sleep of the contented next to me on the bed. ‘Right Tom,’ I told him, ‘time you went.’ He looked at me, his eyes round with total astonishment. ‘I’m sleeping.’ He pointed out. ‘Yes, I know. But you aren’t allowed in the bedroom, so go and sleep somewhere else.’ He hunkered down a bit deeper in the duvet. ‘Shan’t!’ ‘Go!’ I commanded. He didn’t. I pushed. It was as effective as pushing a furry jelly up an escalator. I tapped him on his bottom. He put his ears back. ‘Not going.’ I tapped him harder on his bottom. He glared at me. ‘Make me!’ In case there was any ambiguity about who it was who was supposed to go I repeated ‘Go! That’s you Tom. Go!’ I tapped him again. With ears back and murder in his eyes he raised a paw. I rose from the bed like the Angel of Wrath in a nightie, ready for a confrontation. He took one look at me, and without hesitation he fled. Next morning he greeted me with affection and a request for his breakfast - in reverse order. I doubt either of us will refer to the incident again. But in all fairness he’s 6 years old and that is the first difference of opinion we have had.