Well, my girls have certainly had a busy weekend, what with re-arranging the baubles on the Christmas tree, not to mention the cards that were on the window sill for a little while – bless them. They both love Christmas so much.

I remember when my children were young, we had a small nativity scene which stood next to the Christmas tree.

Each year, the tiny figures therein would re-enact the Christmas story, with a little help from my offspring, until one year my daughter asked where the cat was.

“What cat?” I replied. “The stable cat, of course,” she retorted. “There must have been at least one cat at the stable in Bethlehem, or they would surely have been overrun with mice.”

Thereafter, the small china cat, who for most of the year lived in the display cabinet next to the fireplace, spent every Christmas as a part of our nativity, nestling in the straw next to the oxen and the donkey.

Then there was the unforgettable Christmas when my pretty colour point Persian decided to shin up the Norway spruce, with disastrous consequences.

In dismay, I watched from the kitchen as the tree crashed to the floor in slow motion, losing virtually all of its needles in one fell swoop.

One of my favourite Christmas memories, however, comes courtesy of Stan, an old friend of mine, and a small black and white cat called Charlie.

December was very cold the year that Stan first noticed that a small black and white cat had taken up residence in the neighbourhood.

By his own admission, Stan was a “dyed in the wool” dog-man. He had never owned a cat in his life and up until this point, had no desire to do so.

Sadly, this sorry little stray was spending much of his time huddling beneath parked cars and on occasion skulking beneath the hedgerow around the edge of the garden.

Eventually, in a quandary, Stan phoned me for advice. The cat was obviously homeless and hungry, but no one could get anywhere near him.

Some food had been left out for him, which was devoured greedily, while constantly checking that everyone was keeping their distance.

I gave Stan the phone number for the local Cats’ Protection League and explained that they would trap the stray if needed, but Stan, feeling that this little chap had experienced enough trauma in his short life, decided to wait a little while longer before making that phone call.

A couple of weeks passed and the little cat, now known as Charlie (as he had a mark on his face that resembled a Charlie Chaplin-style moustache), was still not letting anyone get near to him.

Sometimes he would disappear for a day or so and then just as suddenly reappear again, which is exactly what happened one night, just a few days before Christmas.

It was about 11 o’clock on that particular night and bitterly cold. Libby, Stan’s border collie, was making her final patrol around the garden before retiring for the night.

Stan was waiting by the open door when he noticed a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness underneath the car parked opposite. The road was sparkling in the streetlight, stars were shivering in a frost-bitten sky, and then something quite remarkable happened.

Coming to a halt at the garden gate, Libby turned and stared across at the parked car and then, as if he had been doing this every day of his life, the little cat rose to his feet, stretched and skipped across the icy road, slipping easily between the bars of the wrought iron gate and into the garden.

With tail held high, Charlie walked purposefully down the garden path with Libby, who had never lived with a cat in her life, following closely behind. Through the front door they walked, as if they had been friends forever, and who knows, maybe they had?

We never did discover where Charlie had lived prior to moving in with Stan and Libby, but then cats do tend to be a law unto themselves – excellent judges of character none the less.

So on that note, I will finish and draw to a close for 2013 by wishing you and all your four-legged friends a very merry Christmas and a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year.