London was an interesting place to work in – I did quite a few temporary locums there. I would pack up my backpack, hoof it down to the local train in Newcastle Upon Tyne, and wait. The train would hiss to a halt; I\’d scramble to get my pack on, grab my guitar case, and get through the door before it took off again. A halting journey at every stop into the city, bare trees tattered with wind flung plastic bags giving way to ever tighter and taller housing and buildings. Then I\’d find my way to the British Rail station, line up for a ticket, find my way to the platform and get aboard. A comfy seat, my notebook, something to read; then the train would jerk to life and ease us out into the english countryside. Sere hills, cold grey skies, the odd tunnel blanking the world into darkness; swaying gently to the rattling, clattering rhythms of the wheels rolling over the tracks. The food car. Nothing on this earth is less digestible than British Rail food. It looks like food, it even tastes like food, but it sits in your gut like a lump of lead, sullenly erupting sprays of acid up to burn your oesophagus. But it\’s a long trip, and hunger will drive a man to do desperate things!
London! Then it would be time to drag all my gear into the acrid, noisy, dark and crowded labyrinth of the underground. Decoding the maps, buying tickets, and then squeezing into the madding crowds. Finally I popped out. I stayed with some friends this trip, in a lovely flat in a quite posh part of London. The clinic was a walk away. I settled in quickly, and enjoyed the texture of humanity who wandered in with their pets.
One day, this fellow walked in with a huge cat under his arm. The smell of the cat wandered into the consult room quite a while before he and his cat actually entered. Pungent! This fellow still was ALL tomcat. His dad wandered in and gently sat him on the table. The cat sat there, calmly surveying the room. He must have weighed 10 kg, and had the huge moon face of an entire tomcat. (They grow big face pads, which help them when fighting.)
\”What can I do for you?\” I asked.
\”Well – we just wanted to have him checked over, you know,\” he said. His voice was terribly well bred, this accent had obviously been polished at length in the finest schools and universities the empire had to offer. His face was friendly, open, and in a curious contrast, his coat was shabby, worn, the sort of shabby only the terribly rich would ever dare to face up with.
So I checked him over- as he purred away like a steam train, and head bumped me vigorously. He was perfectly healthy!
\”Where does he live?\” I asked.
\”In our home, of course,\” he answered. \”Where on else earth would the dear boy live!\”
The smell of this cat was making my eyes water gently while I spoke to him. It was so strong I could nearly touch it, as he sat there, a big old purring, reeking tomcat. I couldn\’t imagine sharing a house with this fella, as much as I liked him. I have a real soft spot for entire tomcats; there is something particularly special about them.
I farewelled them both, and watched this delightful, eccentric, terribly well bred and spoken Englishman make his way back into the street; huge, horribly ponky, and very friendly tomcat tucked under his arm, and smiled to myself.