I WROTE a few months ago about how my eldest son and his girlfriend have moved into their first proper home together. Given that it’s a large, two-bedroom flat, this means that there is room for us to stay. So, for the first time ever, after years of us waiting on our five sons, we have been enjoying the luxury of being guests.

After our last visit, however, I’m worried we won’t be invited back.

It’s not that we left wet towels on the floor, ate all the food in their fridge or trampled over their carpet in muddy boots, all the things they have been doing as a matter of routine in our house for years.

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I know I have always threatened to return the favour one day, but of course I never meant it. No, this was all the fault of our new kitten, Arthur. Last time we went to visit William and Amy, we brought oh-so-cute little Arthur, along with his litter tray, food and assorted play things. It seemed to go down well, particularly with Amy.

“I think they really enjoyed having him,” I told my husband as I loaded all Arthur’s things into the car before heading off for another visit. But Arthur is a lot bigger now.

And, since he can’t go outside until he’s completed all his veterinary treatments, he’s a bit stir crazy.

“He’s more like a teenager now,” I explained, as Arthur tore round their flat, occasionally stopping to claw at their new sofa.

“No. Get down. Stop that,” I told him, in a stern voice, demonstrating how you have to treat him just like a teenager, setting clear boundaries and showing him who’s boss.

Arthur responded just like a teenager, and totally ignored everything I said. Then he started to eat a plant.

“We just bought that yesterday,” said William, for whom Arthur’s charm was clearly wearing thin.

We went out for a bit, leaving William, who by now was finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the smell of the litter tray, at home in charge of Arthur.

We texted to see if everything was okay. “Fine, he ran headfirst into a mirror and tried to eat a wasp, so stupid as ever,” he replied.

I reminded William of the time he ended up with a badly bruised and swollen nose at 14 after standing on a rake in the garden, to see if it really would flip up and hit him in the face, the way it does in cartoons.

“He’s just being a typical teenager, William,” I said. “They do tend to do stupid things.”

Next morning, when we got up, there was no power. When William tried to turn on the TV, there was a loud bang, then everything went off, followed by a worrying fizzle, pop and hissing from the fuse box.

Amy investigated the socket, which was recessed into the floor, behind the TV. “It seems damp,” she said. “And it smells of urine.”

Little Arthur had wee’d into it and blown the electrics. I was profusely apologetic. “Of course we’ll pay for the repair,” I said. But it was a Saturday and difficult to get hold of anyone. Eventually William found an emergency electrician.

“Great,” we heard him say. “So that’ll be £145 an hour, yes, I’ll just give you the address…”

His dad, who has never been a cat person, nearly choked on his cold drink (we couldn’t make tea): “£145 an hour? Plus parts? Plus VAT?

That’ll end up costing us about £400.

I’m not paying that!”

“Let me have a think, I’ll call you back,” said William. They both glared at Arthur, who wasn’t the least bit concerned.

Now was probably not the time to remind William of the time, when he was a toddler, that he climbed up and wee’d on our kitchen table while we were sitting round it having a meeting with our pensions advisor.

But the word “karma” came to mind. Eventually, we found a cheaper electrician, but it still cost £150. I don’t think Arthur will be invited back. I just hope we are.

I HAVE been undergoing a “body transformation” course at a local gym. I think there are signs of it beginning to work.

I even got a rare compliment from my husband the other day, so it must be. “Your legs don’t look as chunky as they normally do,” he said.