I HAVE to hand it to our ginger cat. When it comes to being sick he's a pastmaster.

I would even go so far as to suggest that should the Guinness Book of Records ever see fit to include a category on vomiting he'd carry off the main feline prize as the up-chucker of the year. Perhaps we could have a blue plaque.

There are not many places which couldn't be pinpointed as a place where Thomas Jefferson, or TJ, hasn't performed. He's quick, he's quiet and he's usually well out of the way before his little gift has been spotted. I came, I saw, I threw up, I quickly left, is his motto and seldom is there any warning.

On Sunday he excelled himself by being neatly sick on the balustrade at the top of the stairs, a narrow piece of woodwork which is a favourite sitting place for both cats so they can see both up and downstairs at the same time.

I say neatly sick because he managed to do it in a straight line without spilling a drop, which was of some comfort to the person who had to clear it up, and immense comfort to the person who happened to be walking down the stairs at the time. In this case the very same person.

If he wasn't a big, strong healthy cat with a good appetite, a glossy coat and cold nose, I might worry. But he is.

Now you may be saying to yourself 'fur balls'. Or maybe not. But I don't think it's that. He doesn't shed much, only on black clothes which mysteriously seem to fall off hangers when he's in the vicinity.

It might be classed as attention seeking if he performed pathetically in front of us or hung around to see the result. But he doesn't. He frequently disappears leaving his brother innocently sitting close by saying 'It wasn't me, honest'.

The only thing I can pinpoint is that he is a fast eater, or, as we children used to be accused of frequently , he bolts his food. 'Don't bolt your food you'll be sick', parents used to say, although we did and we weren't. I'm afraid he does bolt his food because his brother has developed a very clever trick. If his ginger sibling should so much as pause for a breath whilst eating then a grey paw streaks out, hooks the food bowl and drags it away. I'm now trying to feed them apart, which is not easy because both can hear the rattle of a pussy dish 200 metres away.

I hope this doesn't continue because apart from ricking my back after doing a pas de deux down the front path after slipping on Saturday's dinner I have also had the less than salubrious experience of walking onto something warm and squashy in the middle of the night.

Still, I doubt if he'll beat one cat we had for finding the place which produces the biggest surprise to be sick in. He managed to do it in the pocket of my husband's sheepskin jacket which was hanging over the back of a chair. The pocket he always dropped his car keys into. That jeopardised at least two of the cat's nine lives I can tell you.

Newspaper offices get a lot of books sent in. Some are very good; local writing, novels, travel books, books about towns and villages and books full of old pictures of the area. They are a pleasure to review.

Then there are the others. Strange books which seems to have no local connection at all, or if they do, it's very vague. Tedious biographies by people who have apparently done nothing very interesting since the day they were born. Dreadful bodice rippers with lurid covers which are always about a poor but beautiful servant girl who always manages to snare the Lord of the manor but not before she's been ravished by the villainous squire and fallen down at least one mine shaft. Terrible travel books which map the progress of someone who hopped up Kilimanjaro on one leg or travelled down the Amazon on a pedalo and nearly got eaten by pirhanas or natives or both.

Sometimes, however, you get a surprise. One of the most recent arrivals was titled 'Oops, Pardon Mrs Arden', which I mistakenly thought was yet another dreadful biography possibly by someone who had appeared in Brian Rix farces for several decades.

But I was wrong. It's subtitled 'an embarrassment of domestic catchphrases' by Nigel Rees and it contains all those little sayings that people say which sound totally incomprehensible and usually are.

Having been brought up by a grandmother who was likely trot out strange phrases at the drop of a hat, I took to the book at once.

Even the title, because that was familiar in our house. 'Beg your pardon, Mrs Arden, is my pussy in your garden?', gran used to say if she did something socially unacceptable.

If I complained about something she would say 'It's better than a slap in the face with a wet kipper', another one listed in the book, although belly replaces face and fish replaces kipper.

She also said 'all curtains and kippers' for those who had a fancy house but spent little on food. 'Fur coat and no knickers' for any woman who was thought to be just a little bit of a tart and 'fine words butter no parsnips' which I never understood and neither does the author of the book except it seems to date from the 17th century.

For a child brought up on 'there's no such words as can't', 'little pitchers have big ears', 'if you don't know nothing you must know something' and 'don't care was made to care', this book is a gem.

The author has gathered sayings from his own family and others. I love 'To Hell with poverty, put another pea in the soup', and 'I wouldn't fancy him if his 'a... was decked with diamonds', the latter from Wales.

Then there's 'plus fours and no breakfast', presumably another show-off putdown, the mysterious 'a slice off a cut loaf is never missed', and 'as queer as Dick's hatband'; another mystery. 'Everybody to their liking, as the old lady said when she kissed the cow' seems to date far back in time.

My grandmother often said 'Heavens, eleven o'clock and not a pot washed', whereas the book quotes a slightly different version 'eleven o'clock and not a whore in the house dressed'.

I suppose there's something very comforting about family sayings, even if we don't always know what they mean. And it's nice to acquire new ones. Such as 'She's so miserable every time she laughs a donkey dies', or 'he's so mean he can peel an orange in his pocket'.

And then there's 'ugly enough to eat oats', or 'a face like a yard of pump-water' for a misery.

I particularly like 'put another dog on the bed', which is apparently what you do when it's cold, and the even more incomprehensible 'It fits like a stocking on a chicken's lip'– a Yorkshire saying about clothes made badly and which didn't fit.

A nice book, a bit rude in parts but nostalgic and very funny. £12.95, published by Robson Books.