London is in the grip of a cold snap*. And – merci à Jésus, à Marie, à Joseph et au petit âne – Louis Catorze’s bald patch appears to be growing back slowly. The timing is great; no more will he step outside and leak heat into the atmosphere like a runaway steam engine.

*Non-Brits: a cold snap, by definition, is a short period of exceptionally cold weather, but we just like saying “cold snap” and would still say it even if it lasted for months or years. Somehow, saying “We’re having a bit of a cold snap” seems less whiney than just saying, “God, it’s bloody freezing”.

Whilst most of us are shivering under blankets in our living rooms, not daring to crank up the heating for fear of being slapped with a massive bill, Catorze is out. I had hoped to take some photos of him gadding about in the snow, but this has proven impossible because he tends to favour all-night excursions, going out after I’ve gone to bed, then clattering in at 5am, freezing cold and screaming.

And, far from his nocturnal shenanigans wearing him out, they are like a shot of adrenaline. We are exhausted by his attention-seeking, screaming and constant demands for play, and Cat Daddy is quick to remind me that at least I get to escape to work, whereas he’s stuck with him all day long.

I know. It’s a sad day when rowdy teenagers are regarded as an escape.

One of my friends: “It’s probably because of his steroid shot. Didn’t he only have it last week?”

Me: “Erm, no. It was a month ago.”

[Silence, tumbleweed, crickets.]

Me: “In fact, he’s due to have another one next week.”

[Stonier silence, more tumbleweed, chirpier crickets.]

At least the little sod is having fun. I’m not sure I’ll be saying the same of myself, after two weeks of being stuck at home with a ‘roid-high Roi.