I spent the last week with a dozen readers in Bali, relaxing, laughing and eating MY GOD ALL THE EATING. On Sunday, once I was home, I went to put on a pair of jeans which had obviously shrunk in the wash while I was away. Even with the old tried and tested method of lying on the bed and trying to pull up the zip with a coat hanger didn’t work. While I was doing this, Mr. Woog walked in and asked what the devil was I doing?

“I ate too many chocolate croissants…” I told him, before abandoning that bastard jeans and donning a soft pant. A soft pant never judges me, it just cocoons my swollen buttocks, with love.

But back to the Bali gang. Ten years ago, had you put us together, we may have spent some time showing each other photos of our children, bragging gently about how amazing they are. Now, this groups kids were older, so instead, we fawned over photos of the fur babies. LOOK AT THEM!


This happens as your kids get older. You transfer your affection to your pets, who don’t talk back, don’t forget their beef mince and garlic which was left on the bench this morning and is urgently needed by 11am because of a home economics assessment, and they don’t even need towels, let alone the skills one needs to hang a towel on a hook. Heaven FORBID YOU CANNOT DO THAT YOURSELF….

But they are not without their own problems, which brings me to the point of this post.


This is my cat Chuy. Chuy is a seven-year old domestic short-haired cat. A little background about him? Well he was born in a stable on Christmas Day, which is why I originally wanted to call him Jesus. Anyway, his mother was the stable cat and his father was a fly-by-night root rat, who knocked up Chuy’s Mum and was never to be seen again.

So it is fair to say that Chuy came from humble beginnings. He was weaned from his mother with handfuls of scattered dog kibble. He was made of tough stuff. And then I fucked it all up by taking him away from his rustic surrounds and plonked him into the leafy North Shore. I stupidly started to feed him the evil, evil, EEEVVVIIILLLL FANCY FEAST, because I loved him and the ads told me that if I loved my cat, then I would pony up for a premium product.


Now I do not know a lot about addiction, but I do know that after prolonged and sustained exposure to one’s drug of choice (In this case, Chuy and Fancy Feast) you need MORE. Fancy Feast was no longer doing it for Chuy. No matter which variety, he would turn his nose up at it.

Yesterday, I called a crisis meeting with Three-Doors-Down Douglas, who co-parents Chuy during the day. We discussed Chuy’s aversion to FF. He said he was having a bit of success with fresh smoked salmon. I told him that the only thing he was eating at my joint was chopped up raw chicken breast. REMEMBER THIS IS A CAT WHO STARTED OFF EATING NO NAME DRY DOG FOOD.

So the point of this whole post is to ask for your help. Am I creating a rod for my own back? Should I approach his meals in the same way that I use for my children, i.e. “Eat it or starve!” Other than his orthorexia (a medical condition in which the sufferer systematically avoids specific foods that they believe to be harmful.) he is perfectly healthy, so says Dr. Nick. What to do internet?

Insert advice here