My sister and I both had our Beatrix Potter favourites when we were kids. She loved Squirrel Nutkin, but all my devotion was reserved for The Tale of Samuel Whiskers. No surprise that I grew up to write horror stories of my own, then - for this is a horror story and no mistake. The image of that monstrous rat and little Tom Kitten rolled in dough for dinner, squalling through his own culinary preparation, caught my attention no end. (A few years later, when George Orwell came into my reading bailiwick, my horror of rats was cemented. But I'm sure it began here, with cats and pudding.)