Madge

My little cat is on her last wobbly legs.  She's just a dusty bag of bones covered in raggedy threadbare fur and eye-watering patches of bald pink skin.  84 in human years.  She shudders and flinches and staggers.  She shits on the floor and drags her scrawny arse across the laminate, leaving ribbon streaks of poo. She pukes up painfully, all froth and yellow.  She looks demented and confused, her wild angry eyes sinking deeper and deeper into her tiny skull.  

Madge is having tests.  Very expensive, time-consuming, unsettling tests.  But really what can they do with an 84 year old?  

I just wish she would just die on the sofa, curled up in my lap, with the sun on her pretty face.

One of our cats has a broken leg. Could have been a hit and run.  Could have been a fox bite apparently. Yesterday, instead of being at home preparing for the arrival of the 30 odd people for our annual garden party, I was ensconced at CitiVet on the Mile End Road.  A callow youth with allergies masquerading as a vet X-rayed Tip Little and announced that he would put a “cast” on the offending leg as an interim measure until a proper surgeon was able to operate and relieve me of a £grand or so.  Money I would prefer to spend on a holiday, naturally.

 

The sneezy snuffly lad took Tip into a back room, after asking the receptionist/assistant to abandon reception and assist him.  She checked that the door was latched and left me alone with my anxieties.  I paced up and down the white room, dramatically.  I read the pinnings on the noticeboard.  I watched the parade of nations walking down the street.  I studied the rain pouring from slate clouds until the promised “sunny intervals” emerged, as the start time for the party drew closer and closer.  I saw cars and buses and bicycles.  I followed the numbers on the digital clock and wished I were somewhere else. 

 

A bloke in his mid fifties was suddenly rattling the front door and I let him in without thinking.  His eyes were red and wet and he was holding a Tuxedo cat wrapped in a black bin liner.  The cat miaowed once or twice, feebly, heavy in his arms.  The man started to speak and I quickly, jaggedly, explained that I was a just another customer and that the receptionist was out back and would surely return soon.

 

He was extremely agitated so I eventually asked if he was alright, asked if the cat had been in accident?  “I am the one who is in distress!” he said, strong East End. “My wife died yesterday and I can’t look after the cat.  I just can’t.  They ‘ave to put it down or whatever they do.  Or I let it run wild on the street and my wife won’t want that.  Would not have wanted that.  I can’t look after a cat.”  The man was pretty much sobbing now and looked like he was just ready to put down the burden and bolt. I tried to say some stuff that wasn’t all wrong but nothing sank in.  He just rustled the bin liner wrapped around the quiet, resigned, slightly embarrassed black and white cat.

 

The man and I stared at each for a long time both wishing the receptionist would come back from attending to Tip to sort this all out.  He opened his mouth to speak and held the cat out in front of him.  We stood there frozen, speechless, crushed by the moment, utterly lost. 

 

A car horn beeped outside.  Again and then again.  I looked through the window to see a younger guy at the wheel of dark green hatchback, accompanied by a baby in a car seat. The driver leant out of the window, waving a cigarette at us and yelled “JANE’S GONNA TAKE CARE OF THE CAT!”

 

So the cat in the black bin liner left with the crying man who got into the car with a chap that knows someone called Jane who’s going to look after it.  I stood by the door blinking for a few minutes until I noticed, peripherally, a big black cat skulking and hopping across the floor.  Tip had escaped the clutches feckless vet and was limping his way to freedom.  

The so-called cast turned out to be a ridiculous courgette shaped bandage which was later to be found, ownerless and fur-encrusted, in TrouserTown – Tip’s favourite of all Matt’s clothing shelves.  

Our cat, whilst feeling slightly sorry for himself, is largely undefeated.  Tomorrow we’ll hear what needs to happen next to fix him.

 

The party went OK but I never quite managed to shake off the whole giant weight of that man’s incomparable loss and confusion bundled up in a black plastic bag.

 

7.30am

The sheep and goat pens on Buxton Street are empty early doors, save for the magpies and sparrows bouncing on the woodchip. I can hear a big dog’s echoey bark somewhere towards Hoxton. A little grey felty purebreed in a tartan jacket is being walked into Allen Gardens, twitching, its owner wearing woolly earflaps. Pigeons peck at the middle of Brick Lane, darting, chancers, almost pretty and poetic in front of the headlights of a white van in the thin dawn. The Dray Walk cleaners shelter in the kebab shack, smoking.

They are digging up the roads and the pavements. They are unloading boxes of bottles next to the wine bar. They are making San Pellegrino and olive oil deliveries to Pizza Express. They are diverting traffic. They are stopping pedestrians and cyclists to let heavy trucks come and go, flopping pale wet dirt wads onto the walkways, creamed under 40,000 shoes.

There’s an overturned cup and a puddle of Latte at the corner of Bishopsgate and London Wall. Seems to be a spill there almost every morning. Scuttles of people in big coats and striped suits and hats and gloves and scarves with briefcases, suitcases, newspapers, books, coffee, cigarettes. With rushing about their daily business. With mobile phones. With distractions and intimate calls in the middle of crowds of strangers.

I will definitely overtake people on the bridge when I spot a gap in the oncoming heave of commuters. I plan to speed up and nip out, keeping my head down – no eye contact - and my long coat away from the burning fag ends. I will sidestep the Big Issue seller’s steaming cup of tea and the diabolos at the motley feet of the juggler as he fills his flame batons with white spirit. I will absolutely bolt to the finish line of my office steps when I get into the final straight of Borough High Street, with the survival instincts of an upstreaming salmon.

But when I am only halfway there and the bloke behind me at the crossing pushes me forward, before the lights have even changed, I push back and scowl because I want to head in slowly today. Today I want to let it all go on around me. Today when it isn’t even properly light yet.

Dariush Dianato R.I.P

My husband is marvellous

Me:  "Did you manage to get to the post office to pick up that package?"

Him:  "Yeah, I went to the post office but it said on the box 'beauty products' and you don't need no damn beauty products."

Me: "Awww, you are so sweet!"

Him: "So I left it there."

Sunday evening

Brick Lane Bargain Hunter