Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, Samhain … whatever you may call it, it’s finally here, mes amis! This festival is known for many things including the concept of disorder and the natural law of things being turned on its head, and today is no exception here at Le Château. The annoying furniture company who have unreasonably and unjustifiably retained our money for 3 months, have finally paid up. The missing John Lewis vouchers that Cat Daddy has been complaining about for ages, have turned up. And we have found Louis Catorze’s Achilles heel: the humble clothes horse.

Cat Daddy placed two of them in front of the Forbidden Greenhouse temporarily, because we needed room to set up our new TV unit. And, hilariously, it seems that Louis Catorze can no longer get in. I’m not joking: HE GENUINELY HAS NO IDEA WHAT TO DO. Here he is, looking highly confused at this recent development and thinking, “The bastards have done this délibérément.”

Yes, I am fully aware that there are gaps which any normal cat could shimmy under, squeeze through or leap over. However, this is Louis Catorze we’re talking about. Or, as some of his wonderful online fans so brilliantly summed it up, #becauseRoi.

So, with the Forbidden Greenhouse inaccessible, he’s given up hiding in there and is happily washing his arse on a clean, anti-allergy bed, safe from dust, fireworks and marauding adolescents. My Halloween will certainly be happier knowing that he’s out of mischief. Hope you all have a wonderful day, and that your furry overlords and overladies stay safe tonight.

As the light fades and autumn rolls steadily on towards Halloween, it seems that Louis Catorze’s health is starting to wane, too. Over the last couple of nights I’ve been very conscious of him fidgeting and scratching on the bed and, when I checked him the other day (with a cat like Catorze, daily inspections are as much part of the routine as feeding and watering), I found a very slightly balding eye and a dreadful-looking hacked-up chin. I’ve decided not to photograph the latter in particular but, if you were to watch a slasher horror film, you would get an idea of its appearance. “Stab victim chic” is le look that Louis Catorze has managed to achieve.

The frustrating thing is that we haven’t changed anything in terms of what we do with him. The only thing I can think of is the fact that he’s rediscovered his love of the Forbidden Greenhouse, after initially forgetting that it even existed. All together now: WHY?

The day before yesterday, he spent so long in there that Cat Daddy eventually went in with a torch and dragged his little French arse undignifiedly out. “It really wasn’t easy getting him out,” he said afterwards. “He’d wedged himself into this weird lidded bit of that propagator thing, and I had to prise the lid off first. He screamed the place down, too. I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t complain.”

I really didn’t think I’d have a battle on my hands preventing a cat from going into a freezing cold place in the middle of autumn; in fact, I thought it would be the LAST place he’d want to go to when we have comfortable beds, under-floor heating and suchlike. I was wrong. As closing the greenhouse door isn’t possible (it’s a sliding door that has rusted in the open position), my only option is physical blockades of the scary kind. So, as Louis Catorze hates mineral water bottles, my next step will be to put the plastics recycling sack in front of the greenhouse door.

To be honest, I don’t really think it will work; despite being thick, he can show flashes of incredible determination when it comes to doing things that are bad for him. But it’s all I have at the moment.

Today is the first day of my half term break, and so far it’s all been about Louis Catorze. Firstly, the little sod woke us at 4am by hollering in our ears and bounding all over us, killing off any dreams of a holiday lie-in. Then we had to take an early trip to the sorting office to collect a parcel containing his flea medication. And, finally, we had to stop off at Cat Daddy’s work, where an impossibly huge 12-tonne sack of Acana Pacifica cat food awaited us.

“This is getting bloody ridiculous,” Cat Daddy muttered, as he hauled the massive sack into the boot of the car. “Our sleep is now shot to shit because of that cat. And look at all this stuff. Who’d have thought, when he was born, that he’d end up living a life of luxury and having food flown in from Canada? How much did this cost, anyway?”

Oh. Ahem.

“One of the girls at work gets that James Wellbeloved stuff sent to the office, and it costs £20 for a bag this size. Please tell me it didn’t cost £20?”

I sincerely swear that it didn’t cost £20.

We had an early morning miracle today. Whilst I was pouring Louis Catorze’s biscuits into his plate, he heard the sound from wherever he was and came running. This has never, EVER happened.

This is a cat who doesn’t like food. By that I don’t mean particular food, human food or whatever: I mean food, full stop. It’s made training him to do things pretty much impossible as we can’t use food as an incentive, and anyone who heard me talking about the infamous Cat Flap Diaries last year will confirm that enticing him through the cat flap with some nice fish just wasn’t feasible.

When others speak of 5am alarm calls, or being unable to eat certain foods unless they stand on a chair in the middle of the room or lock their cats away, it’s like an alien world to me. My boy lies patiently with us until we get up and, when we do, he tends not to go for his plate first thing. And I can leave any food anywhere, knowing that he won’t go near it. In fact, sometimes I put my dinner on the floor and leave the room, just because I can.

Over the last month or so I’ve been gradually phasing in Louis Catorze’s posh new food. They suggest around 2 weeks in total to change foods but, because my cat is thick, weird AND dislikes food, the slower the better, so he’s only just got onto 100% new food. And, because of my stealthy and barely perceptible mini-increments, the little sod didn’t notice.

I wonder whether it’s the food that has brought about this sudden interest in eating, or whether he has simply remembered that he’s a cat? Which begs the question: what did he think he was before?

The Season of the Black Cat (not officially a “season” but just something I’ve made up) is well under way; temperatures are slowly dropping, leaves are turning crimson and gold, and black cats are gadding about with irrepressible energy, driving their humans insane. Do they know something is up and that the countdown to their special day – or TWO special days, if you count National Black Cat Appreciation Day for UK kitties on 27th October – has started? Louis Catorze, despite not being the brightest étoile, certainly seems to have picked up on a new wave of energy. Or maybe he’s just being a shit.

This weekend saw the return of Halloweekend, an annual tradition during which my sister and I get together to watch scary films, do Halloween craft things, eat seasonal food and generally make the most of this glorious season. This year was the first Halloweekend at Le Château, so she was excited about coming over and being able to snuggle a real-life black vampire kitty. And, luckily, my dear boy did not disappoint.

After initially keeping his distance due to the double whammy of being medicated AND de-flead – he may be thick, but he knows he is never usually ambushed twice so it took him somewhat by surprise – he pitter-pattered around us as we made pumpkin spice almond milk lattes, nuzzled my sister as she sat cutting out autumn leaves and eventually settled on the sofa with us in the evening. My sister remarked on how his war wound made it easier to pick out his features in a darkened room. “You can orientate yourself by his fight scar,” she said. “Before, you couldn’t tell which end was which.”

We have a packed October ahead of us at Le Château with birthdays, visits from more of Le Roi’s loyal subjects and all sorts of other exciting events, and we are so looking forward to it. If only there were a way to freeze time and make these moments last forever.

My boy is looking unbelievably good, with his fight wound (not pictured here as this photo is pre-fight) now looking less like the Eye of Sauron and more like an Indian bindi, and he’s got his little black cat mojo back: he’s affectionate, chirpy and full of beans. Sadly he’s also annoying the crap out of us with the noisy play fuelled by his new-found energy, which starts cranking up just as we’re going to bed and peaks between 3am and 4am. Cat Daddy is so ticked off with him that he’s threatening to shut him out of the bedroom, but he’d only yowl to get in and/or find some bubble wrap from somewhere to make enough noise from elsewhere in the house.

He has always been one to take or leave play but, ever since the lovely toys gifted by our guests from Switzerland, he’s been relentless. He’s somehow learned to request play by flopping next to his toys and making pathetic noises, and he does this several times a day, irrespective of how many times he’s already previously had play. It’s never enough. He has a 3-storey house to pitter-patter about in, scores of gardens at The Back and virtually unlimited play sessions, yet it doesn’t seem to wear him out. Nothing does. Just as our day slowly winds to a close, his seems to start with a huge power surge.

If anyone is reading this and has any suggestions for synchronising our body clocks, please let me know. Or, alternatively, please come and take Le Roi away at 11pm and drop him off again at 7am. Whatever suits you.