Cat on a cold tiled roof

When your husband is having chemotherapy and you're under pressure at work you really don't need anything to go wrong, writes Sue Elliot-Nicholls. Like the cat getting stuck - really stuck - on the roof.

It's the summer of 2016, Brexit has just happened, my poor husband is in hospital having hideously aggressive cancer treatment, and I'm due to spend a week filming a TV sketch show. Things must run smoothly.

Guess what? They don't.

My 14-year-old son develops a highly contagious skin infection, leaving him looking like a bit-part player in a cheap zombie movie. He can't be anywhere near my husband because of the risk of infection so I'm running between A&E on the ground floor and the cancer ward on the 10th, ripped apart by divided loyalties.

In the end I call my 20-year-old son for help. He comes straight from a 48-hour rave, glassy-eyed, dry-mouthed and very smelly. As he escorts his little brother out, I can almost see the nurses' eyes rolling.

But compared to what is to come, this is nothing.

After two days back home, my brave husband passes out from the effects of daily radiotherapy and high doses of chemo, so he is re-admitted as an in-patient.

My oldest son, now sober, rested and smelling fresh as a daisy, agrees to take over hospital visiting duties.

Things seem to be back on track, until I arrive home late at night and notice that our cat, Bones, isn't around.

Youngest son points out that he hasn't seen him all day, or the night before. Rattling the cat-food box and calling his name, I can hear a cat pathetically meowing in response to my calls.

"Bones?"... "Meow."

"Bones, where are you?"... "Meow."

"CAT?"... "MEEEE-OW!!!"