MANY years ago when I was a very green trainee reporter, an elderly lady told me she bought the Chronicle every week because it fitted perfectly in the bottom of her budgie cage. It served as a wise reminder both not to take life too seriously and never to discount an audience.

It was something I thought about again this week when just days after writing in this column about the patch of cat mint I’d planted last year which had made our garden a ‘must visit’ destination for local cats. Almost within hours of publication I noticed an increase in the feline tourism trade as moggies of all shapes, sizes and colours made their way to our lawn.

I’m now fairly convinced that The Chron has moved from being the go-to publication for bird cages to being the paper of choice for cat litter trays giving my feline adversaries something to peruse as they make their daily ablutions.

My fears were confirmed last night as the housemate and I sat next to the pond in a vain attempt to cool off and three of them arrogantly trotted past in convoy casting barely a glance in our direction.

“I don’t mind them coming into the garden, I just don’t want them to stop off for a fish supper on their way home,” said the housemate worriedly eying her prize koi.

“It’s bad enough having to watch out for the neighbourhood heron but at least you can’t miss him flying over.”

As we made our way back down to the house I glanced over at the cat mint in all its purple glory and there in a perfect little semi circle around its base sat three fresh deposits of cat poo - almost identical to the collection I had removed earlier in the day.

“Why can’t they just sit there and enjoy the buzz from the mint and then go home and poo on their own lawns,” I moaned as I headed back up the garden for the shovel I’ve designated for clearance.

This morning as I settled down to work, happily facing up the garden one of the offenders made his way back down the path giving me a cursory glance as he did.

In a vain effort to scare him off I half stood up. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow which clearly said, “it’s 100 degrees, you’re not going to run’. For a second our eyes locked and he knew and I knew he was quite right. He tossed his head in victory and continued his meander down the path.

For a split second I thought about giving chase but he was right. With the sun already scorching down there was no way I was giving chase…but tonight I’ll be ready for him. Like a wild west sharp-shooter armed with a hosepipe instead of a pistol I’ve set up an ambush and I’ll be waiting for him and his pals with a sharp blast of icy water where even in a heatwave the sun don’t shine!