I need to escape the kitten-induced mayhem – let’s leap from the top of the chair onto the desk and play cat and computer mouse.

Oh, how the children laughed. Oh, how I cringed!

So I headed for the peace and tranquillity of a bubbly bath. The bathroom is not the place for our feline friends – I read it somewhere.

But my relaxation was short-lived.

Surely neither Rory or Harvey was responsible for the urgent hammering on the door. “Mum, mum, come quick, Harvey’s been sick. He’s really poorly.”

Harvey didn’t look particularly ill – he was mooching about, perhaps a tad disconcerted by the panic that had gripped the house.

“He seems bright enough – we’ll just give him water tonight and that should settle his tummy,” I ventured – just as Harvey climbed into his basket and dozed off.

“Look, he’s really bad, mum. It’s your fault – we’ve been overfeeding him because we don’t have any scales.”

It’s not like them to blame me for anything!

Elder daughter disappeared out the door, a tenner purloined from my purse, setting out on the great weighing scales search.

I was under strict instructions to phone the vet for advice.

The vet’s receptionist was very reassuring – give him water and keep an eye on the patient. If he deteriorates there’s a vet on call all night in Barnsley.

Elder daughter returns ... mission accomplished. She heads for the kitchen to meticulously weigh out their daily rations.

I peer in at the sleeping Harvey. Even Rory seems subdued – worried about his brother, I am informed. At that, Harvey stretches, leaps from his bed and takes a swipe at the unsuspecting Rory. Relief sweeps the room.