IT seems you can't turn on the television these days without coming across some survival programme or other.

They're everywhere on every channel.

Most of them seem to involve dumping small teams of contestants in an isolated place to compete for a small (and often very small) prize.

There will soon be so many of these little groups that it won't be safe to go for a walk lest you trip over a group of exhausted estate agents or seriously dehydrated dentists.

Pasta

Or come across a group of sulking soldiers who thought they could beat the team of housewives from a pickle factory in Aberdeen but quickly discovered that women who have been frequently faced with making a meal for seven teenagers, only one who is related to them, when they have only one packet of pasta and an onion in the house, can beat them hands down when it comes to living off the land.

This is cheap television of course. All you need are volunteers, and there doesn't seem to be any lack of these, a small camera crew, sets of matching fleeces, a pile of basic equipment and a couple of bossy survival experts with some military training who can adopt a slightly sneering attitude towards their charges.

No expensive sets, no catering wagons, and best of all, no actors and actresses likely to throw a tantrum every time an earwig falls in their tea.

I quite enjoyed the BBC's survival programme where they dumped a whole group of people on an uninhabited Scottish island and filmed them for a year.

Strangers

Except you couldn't help feeling that the people had been chosen with a view to producing potentially explosive television rather than just sitting back and watching how a bunch of strangers got on when thrown together.

Why else would they include a man who appeared to have imported a whole brewery in his luggage or a doctor who wouldn't go until his living quarters were seriously upgraded to a standard which suited his family.

Still, it's fun, and wherever you are, the upper reaches of Surrey or the lower reaches of the Amazon, you know that if things really take a turn for the worse the television crew will always be able to get you out .

I seem to have neglected to mention the cats recently, so much so that someone sent me a note asking if they were alright.

Well yes, in a manner of speaking, except they are suffering winter blues and what's more, they are blaming me entirely for the weather.

Every day through the rainy weeks one or the other would look at me accusingly as if to say 'why can't you stop this wet stuff coming down?'. Both have developed the strongest bladders in the cat world and only 'go' when they are reduced to crossing their paws.

And then they only go round the corner under the camellia in what was a relatively dry place but is now so toxic that I notice the weeds are shrivelling.

Jefferson the ginger one is the bravest, he at least ventures into the rest of the garden. Oscar the grey sits on the step trembling with indecision. 'To pee or not to pee' he says and then rushes out, glares at any watchers and five seconds later is back indoors in the airing cupboard fast asleep.

Brothers

I'm amazed all over again how different their personalities are, especially as they are brothers.

I'm just like a parent who wonders how one of their children can have turned into a world famous violinist and the other into a world famous bank robber when they were both treated exactly the same as youngsters.

They say 'Little Tommy was such a sweet little boy, wouldn't hurt a fly. I can't believe he's a serial killer especially when his little sister Mandy is a nun.'

Neither cat is exactly a serial killer, unless you count mice. But they have their own traits.

Tickled

Oscar loves being stroked and tickled under the chin, he loves to touch noses and rubs round anyone he can find purring loudly. And not always for food. But just try to touch his tummy and he'll have your hand off.

Jefferson is totally the opposite. Will allow an occasional stroke but no kissing, no tickling unless you try his tummy, which he adores and will roll over like a big softie.

They like different foods, one won't eat any dry food the other will, one likes fish the other doesn't and Oscar must have a small bowl of milk each day, Jefferson never touches it and only drinks water, preferably out of the pond.

They both adore my little grandson, and have cajoled him into feeding them on demand and letting them in and out as many times as they like, which is a lot.

Both hate rain, both were fascinated by snow but Oscar came in pretty fast when it melted. They both agree totally that the tabby with the white feet is definitely not allowed across the perimeter of our garden but are slightly less sure about the little female tortoiseshell. Oscar rather likes her.

Naughty

When it comes to being naughty I think Oscar has the edge - he's a chewer.

He loves bits of string, small toys and Christmas decorations.

His favourites are, however, all those lovely snakey things which humans call flexes or electrical wires.

So far he has chewed through the telephone cord, the iron flex and at Christmas, the entire wiring system from a little Walkman which now has two little wireless headphones like small dead hedgehogs.

His luck is that none of the items he has chewed have been plugged in - otherwise he may one day be turned into a Persian puss in an instant.

Thank you Meg Bassett - who kindly popped round on Saturday morning with a recipe for honeycombe mould after reading my column last week. It sounds similar but I'll try it first before passing it on.