He's even eaten the recipe!

I've spent most of the morning in the kitchen cooking. George has been ... helping. Currently scattered over the kitchen floor, as well as the beads that got away, we have a munched Sainsburys bag, several chewed-up small plastic bags, shredded silver foil and onion skins. I left him alone briefly and returned to the kitchen to find him eating my recipe.

And if I let him out in the garden, he runs away. I retrieved him just now from down the road where he was rummaging in a neighbour's skip. The workmen waved to me. They're used to George.

It's worse than having a toddler under your feet. Ah, yes, and that's his favourite place to sleep: at, or preferably on, my feet. I don't mistake this for love; I know he's just hoping I'll drop something tastier than onion skins.

And I shout at him and he comes and sits at my feet and looks at me with his big dark soulful eyes. And I say, 'Oh, George,' and tickle him under his chin.