A new year, a new journal entry; my neural integration with the optical information matrix failed, it would appear that the United Kingdom runs on 230V not the 1.5 like it said on the batteries. Oh well, the new whisker extensions I purchased on eBay arrived the next Thursday. I am quite fond of these early winter nights, no sooner do I wake it's dusk outside - prime hunting hour. Yet the bipeds always seem perplexed as to why I would want liberation at that hour; 'I'm well equipped', I growl; it's as if they think I grow this plush winter coat for their benefit. I theorised that they have brought a tree into the lounge in order to make me feel more at home.

I was not familiar with the variety of tree and took the time to educate them on the impact of the introduction of alien species on the British ecosystem. Did they listen? I kid you not; I sat in front of them occluding the image box for 34 minutes attempting to explain. I must investigate the hypnotic effect the programme they call 'EastEnders' has on them, especially the mother. There was only one logical conclusion; the tree must die.

I waited for the elders to depart in the silver automobile stowed on the driveway; my plan was ready for implementation. By leaping onto the radiator I managed to gain purchase on the ledge where they keep the telephone; from this platform I was able to launch a bi-paw attack on the wicker star at the crown of the tree.

Momentarily it was touch and go, doubt crept in over whether my napkin calculations had taken into consideration the drag coefficient of tinsel; nonetheless the tree was felled. The result was most spectacular; I bolted to the hiding spot behind the GameCube in the daughter's room and awaited their reaction.

The mother seemed slightly irate when she returned, yet rewarded me with a night spent outside. As a special thank you, I brought them a gift to put with the other decorative boxes under their tree. You can't imagine how hard it is to find a frog out of season - they didn't seem very amused. Nor did they respond with much amourosity when I took the opportunity to investigate whether the contents of the boxes were as interesting as the decor. And so I sit here on my G4 PowerBook, that the one they call 'Santa' provided; I conclude that at least some good comes of this strange celebratory practice.