If you stick a gps device on a cat, you’ll find its moments are very predictable. Like a slug following a trail of mucus, a cat’s beat is as reassuringly set as those bobbies we used to have in the olden times when everything was fine apparently.
But before you head off from your screen to find a cat to mock, remember we humans aren’t very different. We commute to work, walk the same lunchtime walks, go to the same supermarkets and rarely go off-piste, even when pissed.
The last week has been a mentally and physically exhausting one, and one upshot is I now find myself with a lot of free time on my hands. Today was one of those endless Sundays; the kind of Sunday that refuses to die. And so it was that I found myself following one of my own personal slime trails and heading to the Prince Charles cinema to kill some Sunday time by watching a Studio Ghibli film.
It was one I’d not seen before, and I knew it wasn’t one of the classics: “The Cat Returns,” it was called. Where did the cat go? Why did it come back? Was the cat equipped with GPS? None of these questions were answered, but it was an enjoyable, inconsequential little romp of a film, in which it is made clear that cats are not to be trusted to run their own feudal kingdoms.
Upon departing the cinema, I was struck by a profound sense of loss and insignificance, before heading along my familiar route back to the tube, disappearing into a crowd of Italian tourists, and slowly making my predictable way back to South London.