Boba Sheen. Or Martin Fett.

This moving is a complicated bizzle. Me and the cat have been playing an elaborate game of, erm, cat n' Loz, as I attempt to stick her in her basket and move her into club Dee, our halfway home of sorts for the next gawd-knows-how-long. It's become something of a stand-off, as she is proving trickier to pack than my record collection, assorted Chesterfield sofas and a battered stylophone. I feel like something of a cut-price bounty hunter, in me goretex jacket, trying to lure her with Cat Bix, me huddled in a corner like a cross between Boba Fett and Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, warpaint on, waiting for her to get off the bleedin' roof.