SOME 'folks', as George W might refer to them, just don't know when they've got it good.

Of a morning this particular twosome tend to run around in circles, chasing each other, fighting, heading off into places they shouldn't and taking advantage of the time lapsed between their waking and our hauling ourselves out of bed for another day on the treadmill.

Except, on this occasion, only one of them rushed into the bedroom, the other emerging minutes later, yelping and eventually collapsing on its side.

Her brother tried leaping on her and belting her over the head, but she was having none of it, preferring instead to slope quietly off downstairs, where she would later refuse food and drink. Worrying.

I had been feeling a bit down in the dumps myself, reduced to watching TV shows about the World Eating Championships where the winner received £125,000 and wondering if I could find an alternative non-career. Eating would be no good as I tend to struggle some way into my first pizza, but I once downed a pint in less than four seconds, which could be a start.

My reflective mood was punctured by my partner who, stung into action by our sick subject, had rung an emergency service and been told to bring her in immediately.

Up and out within minutes, we were heading towards a surgery near Manchester, she driving, me skillfully navigating, her failing to understand the difficulty of following a cheap map with only three roads on it while driving through a busy suburb, me ignoring the whining and doggedly pursuing the job in hand, single-handedly securing our safe arrival in good time.

Tests were carried out and we waited anxiously for the results: even her brother, not normally a worrier, appeared concerned.

The man in a white coat emerged from his surgery with one of those looks on his face that says: "I'm really sorry, but...but...but..."

"Go on, please, give us the news..."

"...but, it looks as if it's a pulled muscle in her stomach that's causing the pain, so I'll just give her a painkiller and I'll print out the invoice, which will be £3 for the treatment and £54 for the consultancy."

A pulled muscle? Flippin' drama queen. And it had to be on a Saturday when only the emergency surgery was available.

Still, the painkiller appeared to do its trick and within minutes brother and sister were fighting again, despite repeated warnings that once the effects of the injection wore off the problem would return.

On our arrival back home, the ungrateful recipient of £57 worth of treatment proceeded to leap around the house and garden and would later take a great bite out of my big toe.

And when the painkiller wore off - no problem, whatsoever.

Next time she cries wolf when I'm having my weekend lie-in there'll be no sympathy.

Except, despite the fact that kittens do nothing for you except look quite cute when requiring food or drink, we would quite willingly shell out another £60 next time one of them claims illness. Talking of which, I think I need a tablet to take away the pain brought about by looking at my bank account.