I am an ‘out of season’ cat person – born late Autumn, in fact – and was a rather tiny if somewhat hyperactive kitten. At first I couldn’t even get up and down the stairs. Nowadays it’s the old Carer who can’t easily get up and down the stairs, so I have to wait for her halfway to catch up. I can say, however, that I am now extremely strong and it takes two Carers to hold me down – as when they want to administer some ghastly medicine. I am what the Americans call a ‘tuxedo’ cat person – black with white bib and socks – and a splendid set of white whiskers, groomed to a perfection that puts even Hercule Poirot’s moustache to shame – and doesn’t look quite so ridiculous. And, while I think of it, if you need a detective I can sniff out Human hypocrisy in the twitch of a whisker. I also have a belly flap and long back legs, which, I am proud to say, means I have inherited some residual genes from the aristocratic Egyptian Mau – another reason for asserting that I deserve the more dignified name of Tutenkhamun the Third. Plus, I like to discombobulate The Carers by fixing them with this unblinking, enigmatic Sphinx-stare, which I can keep up for half an hour until I get bored.