SEVERAL people have accused me, after reading last week's column, of causing them to go out and have an enormous all-day breakfast. Oh come on my dears, I didn't exactly stand over you and force eggs, bacon, beans and sausages down your throat now did I? No more than I forced my grandson to accompany me to Compton Park near Callington on Sunday morning and consume the aforementioned, plus black pudding on my part. It was part of a self-indulgent bank holiday weekend and you know it!

I note an internet firm has carried out a survey – there's that word again – on just how much people spend on gadgets they don't really want, or use often, if at all. Then they worked out just how much these gadgets cost to run for the length of time they are used. Confused? So am I, but then all it boils down to is that we all, at some time or other, get carried away by gadgetry, buy it and don't use it. I was quite smug when I looked at the list, because I don't have an exercise bike, an ice cream maker, a foot-spa, a back massager nor various video games. Then I spotted the sandwich maker, which has always been top of the list, and have to admit that I did buy one once. And, after a nasty confrontation with a molten cheese and ham sandwich, never used it again. We do have one in the house shaped like a pig, which was presumably aimed at children to lull them into a false sense of security, but it still produces explosively hot contents, so isn't in use. Like most gadgetry it is difficult and tiresome to clean too. I'll confess too that years ago I bought a fondu set, also on the list. Not a fancy electric one but one you heated on the top of the cooker. That didn't last long, there's only so much excitement you can get out of dipping bits of bread into hot cheese, especially as the cheese sets like concrete when cold both inside the fondu set and, from memory, the stomach. Funnily enough they didn't mention the George Foreman grill, the yoghurt maker, the handy four- tier steamer and the smoothie maker. The latter was bought by me as a gift to the children, to whom I like to introduce new foods. Unfortunately, these new foods included some totally disgusting mixtures like cranberry, banana and carrot; lumps of chocolate, strawberries and, for all I know, judging from the colour, sprouts. There was always six inches of the stuff left in the bottom of the machine and after one sip the little darlings tended to dump glasses of it in the fridge pretending they were going to drink it later, but never doing so. I won't knock George's grill, but it has to be cleaned while still hot and does tend to flatten the food a bit and as for the steamer, fine if you like all your vegetables to taste the same. I like the yoghurt maker, the little jars come in very handy for storing seeds. My own impulse gadget, or fadgets as they are now apparently called, was a pasta maker. My daughter and I bought one at about the same time. Neither of us has actually got round to using it but she says she's one step ahead of me because she's actually taken hers out of its box.

And so to cats. A discussion in the office elucidated that every person who owned a cat, and most of us do, had the same food problem. You know the one. You buy a job lot of a cat food they apparently relish and five minutes after you get it home they turn up their nose at it. Non-cat owners will say that if the cat is really hungry enough it will eventually eat it, but we know they don't. They'll sit there and deliberately starve rather than touch the stuff they ate heartily just yesterday. It may also be a coincidence, but by some spooky fluke the day they go off one particular food is often the day it starts as a special offer in supermarkets. I've been feeding mine the stuff which is 60 per cent meat, or so the telly says, and they obviously approve. They've been wolfing it down, until last week when it went on a two for the price of one offer. I bought two and they wouldn't look at it. And another thing. When they go off a particular food they will never eat a cheaper one as an alternative, they are upwardly mobile. I'm now in a difficult position in that it may have to be chicken breasts lightly braised in white wine because I've run out of ready-made options. And in a month or two, when chicken breasts are dirt cheap, they'll refuse that and demand pheasant. If there was ever a need for a scientific investigation, it's in the cat food department. For the past few weeks its been like Gunfight at the OK Corral at our house, a stand-off between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp (my cats) and Johnny Ringo (our stray cat). So far Doc and Wyatt aren't doing very well. The stray has adopted us and he's not going to be done out of a new home by two woosey pussy pampered pets. That's his opinion anyway, so he's taken to guerilla tactics. He stations himself by the back door so they can't get out, if they're in, or in if they're out. Drawn by unearthly howls, I find each cat sitting equi-distance from each other going through their repertoire of trying to scare the beejesus out of each other with hard staring, fur raising, hissing and werewolf noises. On Saturday the grey cat, who takes the appearance of any human in the vicinity as meaning food is on offer, took his courage in all four paws and leapt right over the interloper to get into the house. I don't know who was most surprised, him, the stray or me. The ginger cat wisely decided that he wouldn't risk it. What I'd like, of course, is if they could all get on. We could fix up a bit of counselling, a hugging session and a lecture about live and let live, except my cats would probably be happy with the live bit, but not the let live if it referred to in our house. As it is, we have a stalemate situation. He's not going anywhere, or rather he occasionally sneaks into the house and meets one of the residents head-on. He's already burnt his boats, if you can say that about something which was more liquid and pungent smelling, by marking his territory in the hall. He used not to eat at the house, and I realised he was feeding elsewhere, but now he sneaks in and happily eats what the two fussy ones won't touch. I realise that eventually he'll also turn his nose up at 60 percent poultry packs and demand caviar. He still lives at 1, The Wendy House, and the grey cat has taken to lurking round the doors down there, probably trying a pay-back move, except he loses his nerve and there's then a screeching and rustling of bushes and a blur of grey and white streaking across the garden closely followed by a blur of black and white. Other cat owning friends have introduced strays into a cat household with happy results, although one had three unwanted cats who refused to come out of the spare bedroom for three months. I can only hope one day a truce will be drawn up between Wyatt, Doc and Johnny Ringo. Mind you, at the moment I can threaten my two over the food bowls: 'If you don't eat that I know someone who will!'