One evening last week, while the rain was still making our lives a misery, a friend and I climbed into a stranger's front garden and started beating the bushes with our brollies.

Not surprisingly, the owner of the house soon emerged to inquire - very politely under the circumstances - what we were trying to achieve by trespassing on his property, trampling his tulips and thrashing his shrubs.

We assured him that this assault upon his hapless foliage was nothing personal, and actually well intentioned. We were, we said, looking for a cat. And that's the truth M'lud.

It happened like this. Returning home from London, my friend and I were walking back from the station when a small, obviously young cat darted out from a garden gate and decided to follow us.

Did we give it any encouragement? Not at all, though my friend, who's a bit potty about anything with four legs and fur, may well have said, "Hello, kitty kitty," . . . as you do. Well, as she does.

Now if you want a piece of good advice, this is it. Never, ever, speak to strange animals. Just one word of acknowledgement, a nod in their direction, and they'll follow you to the ends of the earth - or to the end of the road, whichever is nearest.

And the trouble is, roads are lethal places and there you are with someone's dearly loved pet and it seems intent on making itself into mincemeat. Well, at least this one did.

Just when we thought we'd shaken it off and were half way across a very busy road junction, a blur of black and white fur shot past us. Horns tooted, tyres squealed, but the cat made it to the opposite side of the road. One life down, eight to go.

Obviously emboldened by this achievement, it then made the return journey to its home territory and vanished over a high wall.

"That," I said to my friend, "is quite enough excitement for one evening.

"Let's go." But she didn't move.

"It's coming back again - I can't bear to look!" she wailed.

And sure enough, in an almost exact replay of hooting horns and squealing tyres, the black-and-white adventurer darted back to our side of the road. Two lives down, seven to go, but the cat was obviously not counting.

Tail swishing playfully, it watched us before vanishing into the thick foliage of a nearby garden. "We've got to find it and take it home," said my friend. And she seemed very certain of this, especially when I started to grizzle and mutter about missing Coronation Street.

"It will get killed if we don't," she said, giving me a good push towards the sign that read Guilt Trip - All Aboard.

And that's how we came to be running amok in a stranger's garden at dusk, with the rain purring down. My, doesn't time fly when you're having fun? Almost 20 minutes later the cat was collared. It wriggled, kicked and was most uncooperative.

"Hey, what's your name moggy?" But he (well, we discovered that much) wasn't prepared to squeal. Fortunately he had a name tag, so eventually we returned him to his owner.

"There, don't you feel better for doing that?" my by now cheerful friend inquired as I dripped dejectedly. I smiled as sweetly as possible. "I wonder how many lives she's got left?" I thought.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.