BEING transformed into one of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats is the stuff of Jim'll Fix It. But then, being a journalist is frequently the adult equivalent of that show.

In what other job would an afternoon spent putting on face paints be considered a legitimate use of work time?

I meet my guide, dancer Sarah Meade, at the New Theatre stage door and am ushered into the labyrinth of dressing rooms and offices and through to the theatre wings.

There, in front of the cramped row of spot-lit mirrors, I begin to become a cat.

Each character has unique make-up that reflects their personality and photos of model' renditions are stuck to every mirror, alongside pictures of inspirational felines and mysterious lotions and potions.

The musical is based on The Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats by TS Eliot and Sarah plays the "naughty, impressionable and effervescent" Rumpleteazer, recognisable by her punky ginger and black mane and freckles.

The make-up is elaborate but, astonishingly, Sarah claims it only takes her half an hour. As a novice kitty, I am considerably slower.

First we plaster on white face paint, then orange and yellow, before painstakingly creating the eyebrows, eyes, mouth and nose.

My art school training comes in useful here but it still requires a steady hand. One slip up and you look like a member of Kiss the morning after the night before.

I am also taught the first rule of stage make-up - powder. Everything has to be set', with lashings of the stuff to stop it slipping off under the stage lights. Being a cat is hot work, to the extent that technical staff have affectionately dubbed the cast 'the sweaty moggies'.

By the time we are finished, I have lost sight of any real skin and my face feels strangely immobile. But it isn't over yet.

Susannah Thrush looks after the wigs for the show, all of which are made from yak hair. There are many, ranging from long manes to crusty dreadlocks, and three of each version to cater for understudies and general wear and tear. Rumpleteazer's is a funky striped afro - think Toyah Wilcox in the '80s - with two pigtails forming her ears.

Susannah wraps and pins sections of my hair to my head, before helping me pull on a stocking cap (convincing me that I should never, ever, shave my head).

By the third attempt to find a wig that fits, I am starting to feel like one of Cinderella's Ugly Sisters, but Susannah finally manages to crowbar one on and, for good measure, glues it down at the sides. She then dabs at the glued sections with an intriguingly named bobbly', which allows wigs to be secured without smudging make-up.

Transformation complete, I take a tentative look in the mirror and can't help purring - I'm feline groovy.