You know those pieces of polystyrene foam that you use for packing fragile objects? I’m thinking in particular of the ones shaped like figures of eight, about an inch and a half long. Well, George has discovered them growing wild somewhere in the Great Outdoors, and after a day of his hunter-gathering activities, the house is strewn with them. They have been brought back, one at a time, in his mouth. Who knows where he’s going to get them? I certainly don’t. But he must make twenty trips a day at least. And if someone is intending packaging something with them, he or she had better hurry up, that’s all I can say, or they will all be gone.

As you can see, he’s enjoying himself outside in this spring weather, and I’ve even got photos of Greta this time. The garden looks like a meadow – we’ve never claimed to have a lawn, but these daisies and dandelions appeared about twelve hours after the grass had been cut – before that, it looked quite respectable. Anyway, George likes dandelions and daisies.

If you want to see George move about, there’s a 17 second video of him chasing a bumblebee. You have to have good eyesight to see the bee, and the video isn’t what you’d call an epic, but I thought you might like it. It’s my first foray into moving pictures, and I know it lacks narrative, plot and dramatic tension. But it’s a bit like the beginning of the last century, when people queued up to see movies of trains pulling out of stations. I’m amazed I can do it at all.

While I was taking these photographs, George left the garden, and Greta (who I am reliably informed is male, but as far as I’m concerned will forever remain Greta) and I heard a cross miaow from deep in the hedge. A moment later a new cat emerged – white with a black splodge and an irritated expression which might not be constant. Trotting behind him came George, and try as the stranger might to shake off his eager disciple, he couldn’t. No amount of swearing and spitting puts him off – George just sits down, waits until the object of his affection turns to go, then gets up and follows an inch behind. They both exited the garden at the other side, and I swear Greta smirked. At last, George was doggedly following someone else.