Never mind the details of my sister's most welcome visit; never mind the beautiful weather, the walks, the trips to lovely places, the enormous amount of pretty things she bought for her home in Glasgow or the cosy clothes for herself. Never mind the missed flight home, because of the long, long, slow queues of half-term-getaway families at the 'speedy' check-in desk that she reached too late, her gate having closed. Online check-in only works up to a point, when the baggage handover desk isn't clogged by similarly well-organised travellers expecting efficiency from their airline.
Never mind my pleasure at having her to stay, to see and love my house and its location. Never mind my amusement as how - entirely predictably, her lack of any sense of direction being legendary - she found herself in the hall every time she tried to go upstairs.
No, the highlights for the team were the generosity with which she shared food: the ingredients of a fish pie, her liberality with large prawns, the real possibility that every time the fridge door was opened, something delicious would be offered to the crowd of greedy little faces clustered round her ankles. Scooter was transformed.
It was the prawns (which I dislike, so rarely buy), not the German sausage, or the salami that did it (and no, the sausage wasn't for the fish pie, sillies). Scooter stopped scooting, and became bolder. He moved out from under the sofa. Shopping bag games paled into insignificance. The prawn fairy had arrived.
He watched. He begged. He waited. He was rarely disappointed.
A surfeit of prawns one evening turned him into a whirling dervish, bouncing excitedly round the room, over the furniture - where had our timid little Scooter gone?
And then, the prawn fairy having finally got a flight home, to my astonishment (and consternation) Scooter decided with his new confidence and increased visibility that he too must go for walks with the dogs, Millie, Lottie and me.
And so my reputation as mad cat lady is firmly established. I now lead a furry procession up the street: Flossie and I in front, Floss trying hard not to pull eagerly on her lead, Tosca trailing behind, reluctance written all over her, Lottie trotting daintily, her long hair flapping like an 80s rock band's lead singer, Millie leaping and bouncing alongside, and a little way behind, a round black cat, yowling piteously, scared, but determined to come with us. Scooter the Bold.
A reflective cat-collar is on today's shopping list for this new companion. I'll need to stock up on prawns, I think, so that I can catch hold of him to put it on....
Note: Hamish remains scared of everything, prawns included, although a slice of German sausage will be accepted quietly. He cannot be encouraged to bounce; no furniture-bombing or hill-strolling for that little cat. I haven't found his sociability trigger yet. Perhaps I shouldn't try - a straggle of two dogs and four cats walking up the hill is probably more than my nerves can endure. And Catkin? Ah well.....