The kitten's six months old and stinking the place out, so the poor sod's having his knackers chopped off tomorrow. Ouch. Feel guilty, but what can you do? The would-be Casanova is trying to have it off with everything in sight, including my fave stripy socks. Not. Good.
So my husband made the appointment with the vet as I was getting the kids' tea last night: I'm a self-confessed eavesdropper and I'm sure he always lets me overhear such juicy titbits on purpose:
"The cat's name? It's Crampon-Fred. Yes, Crampon. As in the spikes you use to get up a mountain, you'll see why. No, actually: not the kids, my wife came up with it. Yes. She's a writer."
Ah: that explains it, then.