I LIVE with three females. There's my wife, there's my daughter - a student (so not often there) and there's Abby, our cat. All three have strong personalities, but as to who is the most assertive, the most determined to get her own way? You've guessed. It's the smallest, furriest one in the house - Abby.

Abby objects to me working at home. She may be playing in the garden; asleep in her basket, or otherwise minding her own business. I can guarantee that the moment I get out my papers and spread them on the kitchen table, she appears from nowhere, and plonk - she's on the table, sitting on exactly the page I was reading, nuzzling me, and if necessary head-butting me to gain attention.

If my red box is open on the table, she'll dive in there, on top of all the other work I have to do, feign sleep or look at me Sphinx-like as if to say "you know there's only ever one winner from this contest, Jack - and it's never you".

Monday night and Tuesday morning this week saw the high point (from her view), the low point (from mine) of this seven-year guerrilla war against my work.

The lock on the box had jammed. Having levered it open with the help of a police officer and a small axe, I left the box overnight, on the kitchen floor, with the lid up, for fear of it jamming again.

There's a nightly ritual with Abby as well. The deal is that she has a long cuddle on the bed before we switch off the lights, in return for which she keeps quiet the rest of the night.

She forgot the deal in the small hours of Tuesday morning and started scratching and yowling outside the bedroom door. I sleep nearest the door, so it is always my turn to sort her out. I duly shoved her in the kitchen, unceremoniously, and shut her in. A very bad move, Straw. I should have known better. After all, there is only ever one winner, and it is never me.

I got up on the alarm on Tuesday morning, cursing her that she had disturbed my sleep. As I got into the kitchen to make the tea I was met with this characteristic ammonia cat smell, and then I, nose twitching, moved towards my box. Slap bang in the middle of a draft paper to the Prime Minister on an important subject was a large puddle. Underneath that document were all the papers I needed for the big speech I was due to make at the end of the Iraq Commons debate. Of course, it had spread over everything, and for good measure, Abby had decided to scratch up a few of the folders in there too.

And there was Abby, looking very sweet, with that look on her face reminding me never ever to be that stupid again. The radio news as I surveyed the scene was about my successor as Home Secretary, David Blunkett's latest anti-crime agenda. Well, I thought, how about CASBO - a Cat Anti-Social Behaviour Order? Then again, in court, Abby and me, head to head, there would be only one winner, and it would not be me.

But speaking of the real ASBOs - Anti-Social Behaviour Orders - one of the very satisfying aspects of being in government is how little acorns can grow into tangible programmes to improve people's lives. The idea of ASBOs was dreamt up by then Blackburn Police Chief, Eddie Walsh and me in the mid-1990s, sitting in his office in town, discussing the inadequacy of the criminal justice system to deal with serial neighbours from hell. When I finally published the ideas, in opposition, they got a raspberry from central government. But in office I put them into law and David Blunkett has strengthened and improved their operation. They are not perfect (who or what is, apart from our cat), but they have made a significant difference across the country.