So your man stumbles into his local. His eyes are crosses, teeth are out, there's a split across the bridge of his misshapen nose. In a barely audible voice he mumbles his request for a pint.

"God, man, who did this to you?" asks the concerned and interested bartender.

"I'm after Tim Riley doing this to me" says your fella.

"Tim Riley ? Riley's a wee man, he couldn't have done this to you."

"Well," says your boy "he had a shovel in his hand, didn't he?"

The man behind the mahogany is aghast. "Riley had a shovel in his hand? And what did you have in yours?"

"Mrs. Riley's breast, but it's not much good in a fight."

And that, LEJ, is why I wanted to call our last cat Mrs. Riley's Breast. When he arrived on the doorstep he was short of his origial issue of teeth, toenails, fur and skin. Now he's healed and just grateful to have a job, sir. Great cat. Guess he really didn't need a handle like Mrs. Riley's Breast, but I did want to hear his name called by our vet's receptionist. Or to answer the question when someone in the vet's office asked the good natured question "What have you got in the box?"

Anyhow, a pint please. And if there's anything on the beer engine, that's me. Cheers, E.S.