Trying to squeeze my ever-expanding muffin-top into skinny jeans – hard.

Accidentally spending hundreds of pounds on a pair of this season's gladiator sandals – not a problem.

Getting fit again in time for another 10k race – very difficult.

Finding time to play Kittenwar! on the internet – so easy.

What has unexpectedly proved my mission (nigh) impossible is something you would think was as easy as falling off a pair of fabulous stacked platforms.

I just wanted to adopt a pair of cats from a re-homing centre – give them a second chance at life instead of buying kittens from a pet shop or breeder.

But no – computer says "no".

Seriously, the computer – or rather Google Earth – informed the all-powerful man behind the counter we live too near a main road.

When I suggested it wasn't that close they said actually it was as they meas-ured the distance as the crow flies.

Aha, but we just want ordinary moggies that travel on foot, bound by the same laws of gravity as other unwinged creatures.

No, they said, cats would find the quickest, most direct route.

Even through a row of terraced houses?

But I was wasting my breath.

Never mind that every other household on the street has a cat, we're not allowed one.

I'm the biggest animal lover on the planet but I can't have a cat because of where I live. Well, that's not exactly true. We could still have a cat from them – as long as it's aged 10 or over so it's less adventurous and likely to get run over.

Er, and probably a lot less likely to do anything, I should think.

Seeing as the average lifespan for pet cats is between 12 and 15, I think I'll give that a miss.

I know other people have been rejected by these places because they already have a dog, or other cats or children.

At this point you have to ask whether they really want to re-home these poor animals at all.

I think sometimes do-gooders get a bit caught up in their idealistic notions and forget what they're trying to achieve.

Are they saying no to us young professionals in the suburbs in the hope that legions of little old ladies living in rural cottages are going to come and take all the cats off their hands?

Let's have a bit of realism.

No, we can't spend 24 hours a day with our pets, and yes, there's a risk they might one day get hit by a car but that's life – so could I.

Kitty-cats like to roam the streets, they're independent beings.

Unlucky ones get hit by cars but plenty don't, even if they do live less than 40m from a B-road.

I've lost count of the number of phone interviews I've had now with obsessive cat-owners who refuse to believe I'm up to the task of being a kitty mama – because I live on the outskirts of a city.

And because I've failed to make the grade each time I've so far been spared the potential humiliation of the dreaded house inspection.

I can see it now: "Sorry madam, there are clothes everywhere.

"Felix-Moonhunter and Fifi-fluffysox couldn't possibly be happy in a place like this."

I could have a child with less trouble.

Maybe these volunteers have just seen so many upsetting cases they're convinced no-one is good enough to look after the animals except them.

We're offering them a warm, spacious, loving home as an alternative to a poxy cage – isn't that preferable?

The very fact we went to a rescue centre to find a pet means we care and want to do the right thing.

Call me catty but I think all these supposed "re-homers" just want to keep all the felines for themselves.


Plastic fantastic


I'M no whiz in the kitchen but I have plumbed new depths.

Last time I was ridiculed for attempting to grill a pizza, this time, when I took it out of the oven, it smelled burnt but looked fine on top.

It was a battle to cut through and on closer inspection the base was black and crispy so I figured I had burnt it after all.

My pal and I tried picking off the black bits as best we could, then tucked in, unable to work out what had gone wrong.

Then Al asked: "Did you take the pizza off the plastic base?"

My shameful answer? No.

We tried just eating the topping then gave up, worried toxins might have penetrated every layer.

As I apologised to my BF for almost poisoning her, I felt something between my teeth – a chewy piece of plastic.

I blame Mr N, if he hadn't been away all weekend it would never have happened.