Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Me and My Shadow

Our family moggy, Shadow, six and a half kilos of fur and fat, bears a distinct resemblance to the big scary black and white pussycat in Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy, much to the delight of Nicholas, my two year old grandson, who loves both the book, and Shadow.

Recently, my teenage grandchildren, James and Angelina, owners of Shadow, began to stay with me for two weeks at a time while their father works away on a FIFO mine site. Shadow is unimpressed at being uprooted from her hedonistic lifestyle to stay periodically with me. During the five minute drive to my house, she manages to squeeze out enough toxic urine to stink out the cat box, and the car. I'm tempted to kit her out with some Tena Lady knickers when travelling.

With a malevolent gleam in her eye, Shadow sprays eye-watering, concentrated cat pee on selected items around the house - school bags, jumpers, the grooves in the middle of the wardrobe sliding doors, those difficult to clean areas.

Another of Shadow's endearing little habits is to disgorge a hairball sausage occasionally, accompanied by a series of jerky, choking spasms.

On one of her first visits, there was a distinct malodorous whiff emanating from her. On further investigation, we found a weeping, matted lump on her ear.

"Will we have to take her to the vet, Grandma?" asked Angelina.

"No. I'll fix it." I replied. "All we need is some iodine and a few cotton balls."

Many years ago, I had an old tom cat, Jerry, who would regularly drag himself home after a night romancing and brawling, to lick his balls and his wounds, which inevitably ended up as smelly, swollen abscesses. I had previous experience in treating pugilistic cats. Like James Herriot, I prided myself in my ability to wrap a cat before doctoring it. When firmly trussed, I removed the weeping scab on Shadow's ear and squeezed the abscess. A foul greenish-brown soup erupted as Shadow bucked and vainly tried to claw her way out of her wrappings, while Angelina swabbed the mess with iodine. When finally released, Shadow slunk off, fixing me with an evil green glare.

Next morning, I sat in my leather recliner rocker, watching the early morning news, sniffing the air and wondering where the masked raider had struck this time. It wasn't until I stood up I realised Shadow had deposited some hard smelly lumps on my chair. I had been sitting on them, like a broody old hen hatching a cluster of mutant maltesers. Swearing under my breath, I quickly cleaned up the mess before the grandkids woke up. In addition to Grandma being forgetful, short-sighted and partially deaf, they might think I had added incontinence to my list of defects. Shadow was nowhere to be seen, of course. Probably spying on me from deep in the bushes, sporting a wide Cheshire grin.

She has expensive tastes, only tempted by little sachets of fishy broth or meaty delights. I once tried feeding her a cheap can of cat food. You would have thought I had served her up a fried turd by the turned-up nose, quivering whiskers and the stiff-legged stalking off to sulk in the corner. Sometimes she scores an extra feed in the evening on those days when I can't remember if I have fed her or not, so I give her the benefit of the doubt and an extra helping of salmon mousse or saucy chicken, adding to her already ample stores of fat.

Shadow is now too roly-poly to lick her backside clean if she accidentally soils the upper reaches of her anatomy. Not that it bothers her. She simply does a complicated bum shuffle on Grandma's carpet, leaving a trail of brown noughts and crosses and a cloud of noxious fumes wherever she goes. About every six weeks this occurs, resulting in an urgent call to the carpet cleaner and a hasty bath for Shadow to remove the remaining dags, followed by a snip and shave in the nether regions.

An early riser, Shadow wakes me around 5am. Each morning, I have to side-step her, purring and squawking as she winds herself around my ankles, tripping me up and producing an outraged yowl if I accidentally tread on a paw or tail. She keeps it up until I spoon a nauseating mess of cordon bleu fish, prawns, tuna or whitebait from her gourmet sachets. Sudden silence then, followed by slurping noises as she hoovers it up in under a minute. She looks pointedly at her other bowl until I fill it up with dried kibble to keep her going in case she starves while I'm at the shops.

"Would you like caviar with that, Puss?" I ask as I stick it under her nose.

After breakfast, and a thirty-second dash to the great outdoors, she wedges her fat self under the corner table, boxed in by sofas. No chance of getting her out of there for several hours while she catches up on her beauty sleep. She is sometimes still there when the kids return from school. If she is feeling energetic she might saunter up to her food bowl for a crunchy snack, then collapse under my desk for another prolonged nap. On a rare day, when she is feeling particularly frisky, she rips around the house like a racehorse, shedding clumps of dense fur and nipping at anyone in her path.

For a change of scenery, she sometimes moves between two or three of the dining chairs, sharpening her claws on the upholstery and listening to the satisfying ripping sounds as she shreds the fabric. Ten minutes of this is usually enough to exhaust her and she naps once more, until she is bundled up, loved and adored by the grandchildren when they come home. After being petted, admired and kissed, it's time for her to pester me for an early feed and persist until I give her another serving of prawn and salmon broth to shut her up. Belly full once more, she has to have another lie down to digest the rich potage.

When I am busy preparing dinner, she stretches out next to me on the kitchen tiles. I continually step over her as she sprawls on her back occasionally nipping my foot, or giving a vicious nick with her paws as she languidly rolls over.

When dinner is over, she tries to wheedle an extra feed, but I ignore her as I lounge in front of the television enjoying my second (or third) glass of crisp, cold Riesling. Let the spoiled moggy make do with dried kibble. She has another lie down until she is coaxed outside for her nightly toilette. If she is in the mood, she will take in a little night air and explore the garden. If not, she gives a series of heart-rending meows while shredding the flyscreen door, until the kids rush to let her in and give her lots of goodnight cuddles and petting.

Then it's bedtime.