I bet this wouldn’ t have happened to Jeeves

Rab is house-sitting for his incredibly well-to-do friends and has a drink in hand with his feet up in the refurbished palace... only he didn’t listen to the instructions he was given and his feet are dirty

Ihave been summoned to Swanky Towers once more. Regular readers, sentenced to this column by the courts, will recall this is the quite splendid home where my friends live.

In that home lives a cat. Yes, I’m afraid the strength is down by 50 per cent after Jeeves passed away, leaving only Bertie. As the Towers people also call me Bertie, finding Rab common and Bob a bit too jaunty, this can lead to problems when they shout, “Bertie, come and be fed”, and we both go bounding along to the kitchen.

Only kidding. Bertie, as previously outlined in some detail, is a cat and, therefore, not prone to bounding anywhere, even the kitchen. I’ve been told many times that I am a bounder, though. At any rate, bounding Bertie will be looking after non-bounding Bertie while Cedric and Millicent (not their real names but they should be) are away on yet another holiday.

As usual, modifications have been made to the house without my planning permission, which C&M knew I would withhold. They are not as conservative in these matters as I am. That is to say, I have no imagination and even less money.

But they’re always up to something, though they usually get men in to do it, unlike my late, great friend, Rob. I told you about him recently. Every weekend, bless him, he used to persecute his house with DIY.

C&M, for their part, have had the Poop Deck (TV room) completely redone, and so I am now given stern instructions as to which seat I might sit on and am also told – and am asked to repeat for sinking in purposes – that I must not walk in there in my wellies. Stocking soles only, or slippers at most.

There’s also a new, swanky telly for which a detailed list of instructions has been typed out in the hope of preventing a repetition of a previous occasion when, vainly hoping to watch an actual programme, I had to call out an engineer at a cost of £100.

New locks and an alarm system have also been put on the drinks cabinet but, with my trusty box of tools and my usual steely determination, I anticipate few problems there.

Bertie Junior seems his usual insouciant self. He was, obviously, a bit discombobulated when Jeeves handed in his dinner pail (as PG Wodehouse would put it), but it’s difficult to know what cats think. They’re inscrutable, you know. Not susceptible to scrute.

At least with me, you can tell by my cheery face, and an expensive drink in my hand (mission accomplished), that a change is as good as a rest. It’s hardly a holiday since the joint is just a 15-minute walk down the road from my ghetto, and I still have to work as usual.

But I like swanning aboot here, believing myself to the manor born. Actually, C&M have gone to my manor – Skye – the lucky pair. They’ll have the sea and the mountains. But I’ve got the swanky telly, the heating up (unlike home), and Bertie Junior dozing fitfully on the carpet.

The carpet! Erk. See you later, folks. Need to get these wellies off and scrape that mud off the floor. Bit of a mess, I’m afraid.

Picture: Getty Images. Rab neglects to leave his wellies outside.