My vegetarian sensibilities took something of a knock this morning. I was on the train, headphones screaming, when I noticed the unmistakeable tang of reasonably fresh urine (when you work in social care, you quickly become able to identify just how long that damp patch has been there according to smell, it's a bit like swirling and sniffing an elusive glass of wine).

There was nobody sat next to me to blame, which was my first thought, given that I've had people sitting next to me on trains doing pretty much everything else, including pleasuring themselves under their hastily arranged anorak. So I laid the blame firmly with the train itself and ignored it. Again, something you quickly learn to do when you work in social care.

But when I got off the train, and into work, to find that the smell had followed me, I started getting a bit paranoid. Had somebody taken a leak on me on the way in without my noticing? Stranger things have happened (see above).

I reached into my bag for my diary. It was damp. As was my hairbrush. My keys. The bag itself was damp. On closer inspection, it carried the unmistakable tang of reasonably fresh urine....and that's when I realised that the cat next door, the under-nourished toothless old man cat that I've been letting in at night out of pity and mashing up sardines for, had given me the moggy equivalent of the middle finger by pissing in my bag. I feel violated. And a bit daft.

That's it. The RSPCA aren't going to squeeze another drop out of me. When those terrible adverts featuring kittens left in bins appear on TV, I won't mute them and blink back the tears as usual, I shall turn them up and laugh heartily. HEARTILY. And if old man cat shows up tonight, I'm calling security. And I might buy a bumper pack of ham on my way home tonight.