‘Well, what do you think, Creamy?’ demanded Satie impatiently, lifting his foot up in the air, so Creamy could see better.

Creamy peered down some more, his mouth pursed tight, and his forehead furrowed in deep concentration. He twisted his head this way and that, and rubbed his chin with his paw, as he took in the pointy ends, the bright yellow colour, and the golden buckles at the sides.

‘Come on, come on! Beautiful, aren't they? Satie pressed.

Creamy just kept on looking; and as he looked, his eyebrows slowly rode up his forehead, and his chin rode down his chest. And then, as though overcome, he raised his paw and covered his eyes.

‘What you doing, Creamy? Not feeling well?’ asked Lennie, trying to keep his face straight.

‘Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!’ came from Creamy. And then, unable to hold himself in any longer, he burst out laughing.

‘For goodness' sake, what are those things on your feet?’ he chortled. ‘Never seen anything quite so … well, quite so horribly bright. Positively hurts my eyes!’ and bending down, Creamy picked up a piece of sheet off the floor, and dropped it over his face with a flourish, covering his eyes.

‘I say, Lennie, are those shoes still there? Please tell me they are not!’ he whispered in a pained voice.

Trying not to laugh, Lennie pulled the cloth off Creamy's face. ‘Oh, stop it, Creamy,’ he pleaded, ‘Enough clowning! You are just being silly, you know!’

‘But really, Lennie, have you ever seen such an awful shade of yellow?’

Lennie frowned. ‘Creamy, please!’’

But Creamy ignored his frown, and carried on:

‘Frankly, I personally wouldn't be seen dead in those shoes; they are the sort of shoes that shout: ‘NO TASTE!’ But then, of course, you have absolutely no taste, have you, Satie!’ and poking Satie in the side, Creamy laughed uproariously.

Satie's eyes flashed green fire and his whiskers stiffened; he opened his mouth, but no words came out. He just stood there and gasped.

Creamy, however, had no problem with words. Oblivious of Satie's glare, he went on: ‘Of course, you don't! No taste at all! But then you are only a cat. Myself, I am a dog – a dog of taste,’ he added, giving Satie a superior kind of smile, ‘and what I don't know about style is just not worth knowing. You, on the other hand…’

Satie spat. ‘No taste, eh?’ he hissed, and drawing his claws along the floor, he arched his back for a spring.