Another cat sitting gig, this time in Tooting. When sitting for wealthy, professional, liberal Londoners, the inside of their houses all merge together after a while.

The same brand of ideologically well-meaning toilet paper. The same cook books. A piano for the children (the same children).

The cats, though, differ. This latest one was sassy, demanding. Bitey. Her chief ambition in life was to escape through the front door. Even though, truly, there is nothing for her in that direction. Only concrete, fumes, and the likelihood of death.

Her attitude to me was affectionate, when she could fit it into her schedule. A lap sit, a headbutt. A purrr. And then back to more important business.

I loved her.

A notification flashes up on my phone. A message from the owner.

“How is Dinky getting on?”

“She has already forgotten who you are.”

“I have related this to the children. They are horrified.”

A writer for television. The first play she ever wrote, printed up on the wall. Some people have always known what they want to do.

Her notes for the house was more memorable than most. “Don’t have a bath”. “The hose falls apart in your hands”.

The house was on a main road. From the sofa, you could see a bus stop outside. Strangers waiting, at the end of your driveway. So many different people. So many different stories. There for five minutes, and then gone.

I started to imagine what would happen if I brought a chair outside. Offered a cup of tea in exchange for a life story, told in however long before the next bus into town.

And then it came to me. Someone would call the police.