on no! I don't get any of that do I? They talk to me like I was a puppy. If I hear Mrs. Woman calling me her Welsh Rarebit or Little Pinkalinka (whatever that is), I think I'll go nuts. I'm five and a half years old (38 and a bit in human terms), not five months! The Boss isn't much better either. For some bizarre reason he calls me Daddy's Boy. In other circumstances I probably wouldn't mind but he doesn't even look anything like me. For starters he hasn't got much hair on his head, doesn't speak a word of Greek (I don't but I can understand the odd phrase or two), and my real Dad's a German shepherd living outside Athens. They're fairly minor points because life with these two is actually pretty good. The food's brilliant (free range and delivered every month from Hampshire), the house is neat and cosy (although I wish they'd re-paint the sitting room. Magnolia is so embarrassingly pass), and at least The Boss drives a decent set of wheels (BMW 5 Series). Unfortunately the same can't be said for Mrs. Woman. She has what I can only describe as an "un-natural attachment" to her girly, girly run around, a clapped out 1970s Morris Minor called Toby. The Boss offered to trade it in for something a bit more upmarket, but she wouldn't hear it! She reckons that if she junked that old rust bucket her life would never be the same