and driving a golf buggy. The producer, who obviously has a sense of humour, has described them all as 'distant talent'. Still, he'll get paid a daily fee and might even have time for the odd round of golf.
  Ollie greets me in the porch with a face like thunder.
  'Have you been stealing my marbles?'
  'Well I lost my own years ago, but I wouldn't dream of taking yours.'
  'It's no laughing matter,' he says grimly. 'Five of my favourite marbles have gone from my jar.'
  'Are you sure?'
  'Of course I'm sure. I count them every night. Daddy claims he hasn't touched them either.'
  'Maybe it's the ghost?'
  Our resident ghost has apparently been a regular visitor to Ollie's bedroom since we moved here. Though Alan and I have never actually seen him, our son matter-of-factly tells us that he's an elderly man in a long black dress who wanders around his room and takes his leave through the external wall into the garden. We used to put all this down to Ollie's fertile imagination until Margalida informed us that back in the annals of history, at least a century ago, our house used to be the local presbytery. Apparently, in those days the priest would walk across the fields to the church from the front door that was at the time situated where Ollie's outer bedroom wall is today. That certainly gave us food for thought.
  'The ghost? Why would an old man want my marbles?'
  Ollie throws his arms up in the air dramatically and stomps off into the house.
  Alan knits his eyebrows. 'Not guilty.'
  I wrestle my unwieldy exercise mat out of the car and retrieve the ruffled newspaper, the Ma jorca Daily Bulletin , from the front seat. Alan takes it from me.
  'What photo have they used in your column today?'
  'Ken Livingstone.'
  'Were you writing about him then?'
  'Well, I had a bit of a rant about his discontinuing Routemaster buses in London.'
  'Oh, not that old chestnut again?' He taps me on the head with the rolled-up paper and ambles into the house with it under his arm.
  For a while now I have been writing what my sister describes as 'the weekly rant' for the island's English daily newspaper. It's a great way of letting off steam.
  In the kitchen I find our new feline twins, Orlando and Minky, curled up in their basket. The knot of soft, grey fur purrs deeply, oblivious to life going on around it. Alan scans the pages of the Bulletin while I make myself an iced coffee.
  'By the way, I posted off that application form.'
  The Scotsman lowers the paper and observes me over the top of his tortoiseshell reading glasses.
  'You're quite serious about all this, aren't you?'
  'Of course.'
  Having taken out a subscription with the wonderfully named FAB, I've decide to take my business idea a little further by enrolling on a tailor-made training course at a top Dorset cattery. A year ago we went on holiday for two weeks and packed Inko off to an island based cattery. The experience was a disaster. We returned to find our beloved cat a shadow of her former self, withdrawn, full of infections and with a weepy eye. I was so incensed that I vowed to open a small, elite cat hotel for islanders who loved their felines as much as we did. At the time, Alan assumed I was joking but the idea took hold and I began working on the framework for a business plan. I decided that the adjoining piece of orchard land would make an excellent plot for my cattery but then we didn't own it, and neither did we have the funds to buy it. Nothing has changed but now we've finished most of the costly building work on the house it might be time to revisit the matter.
  'So, when do you start?' he says stiffly.
  'Mid September.'
  He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. 'I'm really not happy about it all. I mean, this course seems like a complete waste of
  Ollie greets me in the porch with a face like thunder.
  'Have you been stealing my marbles?'
  'Well I lost my own years ago, but I wouldn't dream of taking yours.'
  'It's no laughing matter,' he says grimly. 'Five of my favourite marbles have gone from my jar.'
  'Are you sure?'
  'Of course I'm sure. I count them every night. Daddy claims he hasn't touched them either.'
  'Maybe it's the ghost?'
  Our resident ghost has apparently been a regular visitor to Ollie's bedroom since we moved here. Though Alan and I have never actually seen him, our son matter-of-factly tells us that he's an elderly man in a long black dress who wanders around his room and takes his leave through the external wall into the garden. We used to put all this down to Ollie's fertile imagination until Margalida informed us that back in the annals of history, at least a century ago, our house used to be the local presbytery. Apparently, in those days the priest would walk across the fields to the church from the front door that was at the time situated where Ollie's outer bedroom wall is today. That certainly gave us food for thought.
  'The ghost? Why would an old man want my marbles?'
  Ollie throws his arms up in the air dramatically and stomps off into the house.
  Alan knits his eyebrows. 'Not guilty.'
  I wrestle my unwieldy exercise mat out of the car and retrieve the ruffled newspaper, the Ma jorca Daily Bulletin , from the front seat. Alan takes it from me.
  'What photo have they used in your column today?'
  'Ken Livingstone.'
  'Were you writing about him then?'
  'Well, I had a bit of a rant about his discontinuing Routemaster buses in London.'
  'Oh, not that old chestnut again?' He taps me on the head with the rolled-up paper and ambles into the house with it under his arm.
  For a while now I have been writing what my sister describes as 'the weekly rant' for the island's English daily newspaper. It's a great way of letting off steam.
  In the kitchen I find our new feline twins, Orlando and Minky, curled up in their basket. The knot of soft, grey fur purrs deeply, oblivious to life going on around it. Alan scans the pages of the Bulletin while I make myself an iced coffee.
  'By the way, I posted off that application form.'
  The Scotsman lowers the paper and observes me over the top of his tortoiseshell reading glasses.
  'You're quite serious about all this, aren't you?'
  'Of course.'
  Having taken out a subscription with the wonderfully named FAB, I've decide to take my business idea a little further by enrolling on a tailor-made training course at a top Dorset cattery. A year ago we went on holiday for two weeks and packed Inko off to an island based cattery. The experience was a disaster. We returned to find our beloved cat a shadow of her former self, withdrawn, full of infections and with a weepy eye. I was so incensed that I vowed to open a small, elite cat hotel for islanders who loved their felines as much as we did. At the time, Alan assumed I was joking but the idea took hold and I began working on the framework for a business plan. I decided that the adjoining piece of orchard land would make an excellent plot for my cattery but then we didn't own it, and neither did we have the funds to buy it. Nothing has changed but now we've finished most of the costly building work on the house it might be time to revisit the matter.
  'So, when do you start?' he says stiffly.
  'Mid September.'
  He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. 'I'm really not happy about it all. I mean, this course seems like a complete waste of
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