MY cats are furious. OK, so perhaps furious is overstating it a little. Let's just say that they stopped licking their bottoms for a split second when I told them the news, which for cats is tantamount to an outburst of hysterical fury. I would even hazard a guess that they are losing sleep over this issue, leaving them to struggle on with only 22 hours kip a day instead of their usual 23-and-three-quarters.

What has peaked their feline fury is the news that Barbara Sharp, who took care of them for the first ten weeks of their lives, has been given the boot from the York branch of the Cats Protection League. Officially, of course, she has been made redundant, but that is far too polite a word for what has been done to her.

The CPL appears to have conveniently forgotten about the 11 years Mrs Sharp dedicated to the cause, including her tireless efforts to help raise £200,000 for a new hi-tech moggy haven in Huntington, because she had the audacity to age. She flagrantly continued to have birthdays while in the league's employ, thus breaking its outrageous "no over-60s" rule.

What is the CPL's problem? Do those at the top of the league really believe that people lose their capacity to care for cats as soon as they have blown out the candles, with the aid of an industrial-strength leaf blower, on their 60th birthday cake?

Do they really think that people over 60 are all poor decrepit creatures whose motor skills are so badly hit by premature rigor mortis they are no longer up to the arduous task of opening the occasional tin of Whiskas and giving the odd purring puss a tickle behind the ear?

In my experience, entirely the opposite is true, and it is usually older people who have the surfeit of time, patience and love necessary to care for animals properly. This was the case with Mrs Sharp, as my moggies would testify, if only they could stop athletically cleaning their nether regions for a minute or two.

Oscar and Felix, my own flea-bitten Odd Couple, were obviously well-cared for along with the many other moggies they shared digs with at her home. They were well-nourished, clean, warm and clearly used to being handled and played with - all signs of good care.

I doubt they even noticed how unbelievably ancient their carer was. Even now, as my dynamic duo have just reminded me before slipping once more into impenetrable unconsciousness, Mrs Sharp isn't old to them; she's only nine in cat years.

JUST how desperate for entertainment have we become? I mean, who in their right mind pays good money - yes, actual cold, hard cash - to have a night out at the theatre, only to spend three hours or so watching someone in a pinny cooking a chicken?

Well, it seems many thousands of us are only too willing to fork out to watch someone fork about on stage. No sooner has Gary Rhodes hung up his ladle after his theatre tour, than Jamie Oliver takes his pukka cooker on the road. And people are queuing up to give him their cash, even though his show is already stuffed to the parson's nose with sponsorship.

But since when has a chicken casserole been classed as entertainment? Are we really so bored with the arts in this country that watching the skin form on a rice pudding is preferable to watching a play?

I certainly hope not, but in the meantime my attitude is that if you can't beat them, add sugar to taste, put them in a moderate oven and call them a souffl, join them. So ladies and gentlemen, if you would like to follow me, I have set up a couple of deckchairs in my kitchen and am ready to perform a little number I like to call "cheese on toast".

That'll be a tenner, please.