As chosen by Rupert

It was only after Chloe sent the orchid flying off the bureau this Christmas that the penny finally dropped.

Not only had she managed to dislodge the recently-watered orchid (which proceeded to pour wet compost over the carpet), but she'd also sent an ornament crashing to the floor.

Rightly sensing that her actions might not increase her popularity, Chloe recalled a pressing engagement in the kitchen . . . an engagement which demanded her immediate attention.

This, I thought sadly, never happened with Rupert.  In all his eighteen years, he had never broken or dislodged anything.
Where Rupert was careful and agile, Chloe is carefree and clumsy.  In less than four years . . . but, no, it wouldn't be kind to Chloe to itemise all her breakages.

It was Rupert, I'm convinced, who chose Chloe as his successor.
From his vantage point in cat heaven, he spotted the Bengal kitten that was to be Chloe, and knew that she'd be the ideal candidate.  Utterly unlike him in every way, she would ensure that he was never forgotten!

Rupert chose Chloe because, whereas he had always been a serious and sensible young man, she was a beguiling, playful and utterly frivolous, little girl.

 Did Rupert try to manipulate me?  Never!
True, he was the undisputed boss in our partnership, but manipulation was not his style nor his inclination.  Rupert ruled with the gentle, loving, implacable authority of the leader of the pride.
You didn't argue with Rupert.

Rupert chose Chloe because, whilst accepting my authority in theory, she's a strong believer in fighting her corner!
With wide blue eyes gazing reproachfully into mine, she argues each morning that she's bored with free-range chicken . . . that no cat should be expected to eat the same breakfast every day . . . that dragging it out of her  bowl and scattering it all over the floor is exactly what a monotonous diet deserves.


To try telling her that Rupert never questioned his  food, which always remained tidily in his bowl, would be useless.
"More fool he!" would be Chloe's robust response . . .  adding that a conscientious and sustained hunger strike, resulting in your anxious Mum cheering up the dreary chicken with some tasty tuna, was far better tactics!

Could a cat argue with more persuasive charm?  I doubt it!
What's more, as Chloe thoroughly enjoys a battle of wills with her long-suffering Mum . . . rolling beguilingly on her back when she wants to call a truce . . .  such battles are a daily source of entertainment.

One of her favourite points of contention centres on the route we take on our walks.  Whereas Rupert would lead me with enjoyment and purpose in search of our common destination, for Chloe the very concept of a destination is a distraction.
She loves the detours, the deviations . . . everything that turns a walk into an unexpected adventure.
  

What complicates matters is the fact that she's constantly changing her mind.

To capricious Chloe, the route is always flexible . . . shall we go this way?  No, perhaps not today . . . what about that path for a change . . .?

Rupert chose Chloe because of her loving nature and exuberant sociability.
As a one-woman cat himself, he clearly thought that my friends would appreciate the novelty of meeting an extrovert who took boundless pleasure in being sociable.

He chose a cat who greets each visitor with delight and wide-eyed expectancy . . . repaying all offerings with extravagant gestures of gratitude, and treasuring her growing collection of toys.


But Rupert also chose Chloe because he loved me.
He wanted me to have another devoted, delightful companion.  Not a serious young man this time, but a beguiling, exasperating, utterly loveable small girl . . . a small girl who snuggles down lovingly beside me each night, and wakes me by means of an enthusiastic kissing session each morning.

Rupert knew what he was doing . . . thank you, Rupert!

May I kiss it?

Oh dear . . . attention-seeking creatures that they are, I'm afraid my cats are constantly weaving their way into our correspondence! But when I tell you that this story is about another venture into the world of Pet Therapy . . . well, I'm sure you won't mind.

You'll remember Rupert, my much-loved Burmese who died last year. Did I tell you that he made regular visits to the Special Needs Department of our local school?

Let me share something that happened after one of these visits. We were leaving the school when a small boy came walking towards us. As it's a secondary school he can't have been less than eleven, but he seemed very small for his age. Catching sight of Rupert, who was riding on my shoulder, the boy came to a halt. I waited to see if there was anything he wanted to say.

There followed what seemed a long silence, during which the boy stood gazing up at Rupert with rapt attention . . . finally, he spoke.

"May I kiss it?" he said.

I was startled. This was not what I'd expected!

"Of course," I replied, confident of Rupert's total reliability.

By crouching down I enabled the small boy to reach up and place a firm kiss carefully on the top of Rupert's head.

There was another long pause, during which Rupert and the boy studied each other. Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, and a smile of total satisfaction on his face, the small boy continued on his way into the school.

I'm telling you that story because, during the past few weeks, I've been wondering whether Chloe might be able to affect a similar transformation. She is very tolerant and children love her.

Her weekly visits to the nursing-home are a treat for us all . . . but could there, I wondered, be some way that we could extend her therapy to include children?

Looking through the addresses provided by Pets As Therapy, I found a care-home for mentally disturbed children less than a mile from where I live. An exchange of emails established that they would be happy for their children to meet Chloe, and a first meeting was arranged for last Monday.

It was during the days leading up to this encounter that my doubts began to creep in. Not only did they creep in, they established themselves, took root and flourished. Was I being unfair to Chloe? Could children with mental difficulties be relied upon not to scream? What if they wanted to pull her tail . . . or poke their fingers in her eyes? Was I about to subject her to an ordeal, rather than a pleasure? And, if everything went seriously wrong, how could such a hazardous encounter be of any possible benefit to the children?

My anxieties increased as the day drew near. Before leaving home, in order to reduce her energy level, I took Chloe for an energetic walk in the garden. We didn't have to stay with the children for long, I reassured myself. She could be whisked back to the car the moment there was any trouble. But, as I parked at the day-centre, my mood was definitely one of apprehension rather than happy anticipation.

The smiles on the faces of the welcoming care-staff raised my spirits a little. They didn't appear to harbour any misgivings . . . nor did Chloe.

Would I like to give a talk to the group, the supervisor enquired as we walked down the passage? I said that I would rather sit down in a quiet corner, and let the children approach as they wished.

The door ahead of us was opened . . . with Chloe in my arms and my heart in my mouth, I walked in.

Awaiting us was a room full of smiling, expectant small children . . . welcoming, happy children. The sense of loving care was palpable. Not only care, it was evident that this was a place of support and purpose and much kindness. No-one could have doubted that the children were happy. My last uncalled-for misgiving fled . . . and didn't return.

After introducing Chloe to each of the children in wheel-chairs, I settled us both on a sofa whilst the others clustered round excitedly. A forest of small hands reached out towards us.

"What's its name . . .?" they wanted to know.

I told them.

"Can we stroke her . . .?" they crowded in, their fingers eager, but very gentle. It seemed that the only danger posed to Chloe was one of asphyxiation, asphyxiation brought on by an overdose of love!

"Isn't she soft . . . !"

"How old is she . . . ?"

Beneath my restraining hands I could feel Chloe's tense body slowly relax.

There came an unexpected tug at my sleeve. Looking up, I saw a young girl standing close beside me.

"Please . . . " she said earnestly, "may I kiss her . . . ?"

Yes, I know . . . you're thinking what I'm thinking!

From his vantage point in cat heaven, surely Rupert was looking down with benign approval on Chloe, his worthy successor?

A Community Cat

You may have anticipated this letter. I hadn't. Not so soon.

But life has a habit of writing its own script, and this script can carry you into uncharted territory before you feel that you're ready.

Was I ready to consider having a new kitten? I didn't think so. Then, life took over . . .

It was a week after Rupert's death, and I was sitting with Naomi by the pond.

Naomi's Bengal cat, Delilah, had been Rupert's girl-friend. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Rupert was Delilah's boy-friend. She had only to catch a glimpse of him to let out a call of delight, rush up and kiss him fondly on the nose. Rupert took these overtures with the dignity of a gentleman . . . secretly a little flattered, but unwilling to display his feelings.

Nonetheless, I was taken aback when, sitting there in the sunshine, Naomi made a suggestion.

"I'm sure Rupert would like you to have a Bengal kitten," she said.

I looked at her in surprise.

"I'm not even thinking about kittens," I told her, "not yet . . ."

Two days later, alone in a flat that was crying out for a familiar friend, I found myself sitting at this computer and putting 'Bengal Cats' into Google. Up came a screen-full of breeders. But what should have been helpful was merely confusing.

This was a map . . . but there was no route, no destination.

I was about to abandon the idea when, all at once, what should appear on the screen but a blank email. Unthinkingly, I had allowed the cursor to stray and click on one of the breeders, the click had produced this unexpected email.

I hesitated . . . but I'd nothing to lose. The breeder was in Reading, it was not too far away. With little expectation, I typed a message in the empty space. Did the breeder, I enquired, have a blue-eyed, female kitten that would be ready for a new home by the end of May? It had to be a female, I'd decided . . . I couldn't follow Rupert with another boy.

I was rather shaken by the immediate response. Yes, there was a blue-eyed female kitten. Yes, she would be available to be re-housed at the end of May.

After visiting the breeder's website, and speaking to her on the phone, I began to wonder whether Rupert was pulling the strings in the background. He had been a regular and popular visitor to the Special Needs Department of our local school. What was the profession of the kitten's breeder . . . ? She, it appeared, was a Special Needs teacher!

When I mentioned the possibility of a new kitten to my friends their genuine delight took me by surprise. Very few of them have animals, their busy lives make this impossible. Rupert had been their sole contact with the joys and benefits of animal companionship. They were missing him, too. They were missing him far more than I'd appreciated. The thought of a new kitten brought delight to the whole community.

Within days this unseen kitten had acquired not only a name, Chloe, but three aunts, two uncles, and a god-mother! Ten days later I invited one of the aunts to come with me to Reading to visit what I had now decided to call our 'Community Cat'.

The visit confirmed all my hopes and expectations. The breeder was welcoming, the cats and kittens enchanting.

Have you ever tried to photograph a Bengal kitten with a digital camera? The two are not compatible! A kitten is like quicksilver, a digital camera is ponderous in the extreme. After six attempts (in each of which Chloe became the tip of a tail or an empty floor) I succeeded in catching a snatched photo when she dived under her bed in search of a toy . . .

. . . and a second one when she paused for breath.

All of which provided me with plenty of food for thought. The flat would need to be made kitten-proof . . . and tidy . . . and immaculate. Bedding and blankets would need to be washed. Vital electrical wires, such as the broadband connection to this computer, would have to be concealed behind protective shields. It was all too clear that I was going to need every minute of those three weeks before Chloe's arrival!

Now, with ten days to go, an expectant community - aunts and uncles, godparents and friends - awaits our Community Cat. She has been booked for the Animal Service, invited to a pub lunch, is eagerly anticipated by the porters in adjacent blocks of flats, and has been promised long walks in Holland Park. Then there's the visit we must make to Rupert's memorial tree, donated by Mandy in Penn Wood .

Chloe will need to adapt very quickly to a harness, to travel obediently in the car, and to learn good manners . . . I'm sure she will.

As for the most important question: would Rupert approve?

Yes . . . I really think he would . . . I really think he does.

A chapter closes

How can I tell you this . . . ? There's no easy way.

Shortly after Easter I said goodbye to Rupert.

It all happened so quickly. Within weeks of being diagnosed with cancer of the lymph gland, my incredible, loving, courageous companion of eighteen years had gone.

How can one small creature leave so large a hole . . . ? No, I won't even attempt to answer that question.

This hole has extended its reach far beyond London. Messages of sadness and sympathy have been coming from as far afield as Australia and the United States.

Rupert was loved by so many people, more people than I would ever have thought possible.

"He should have an obituary in The Times," said Susan . . . and she wasn't really joking.

Any why not? Has any other cat explored the highways and byways of this island with such enjoyment and verve?

Scotland . . . Wales . . . Devon . . . Cornwall . . . the Lake District and East Anglia, even the Isle of Wight.

Seated, confident and happy, in the passenger seat of the car, Rupert watched the world go by . . . knowing many routes as well as I did! Woe betide me if I drove past the homes of his favourite friends or failed to stop for a satisfying wander in Richmond Park. And which of Rupert's friends would forget his vocal indignation when, at the end of a happy visit, I would tentatively suggest that it was time to go home!

But his life was infinitely richer than a succession of journeys and visits. Has any other cat, I wonder, enabled children with Special Needs to experience the reassurance and pleasure of feline friendship . . .

. . . has any other cat made frequent, much-appreciated visits to nursing homes and hospitals . . .

. . . sat quietly and attentively through services in the great cathedrals of Ely, Salisbury and Winchester . . .

. . . become a familiar, much-loved figure in country hotels . . .

. . . been blessed with both incurable curiosity and an infectious and irrepressible sense of fun . . .

. . . been invited to participate in a book launch at The National Portrait Gallery . . . and celebrated his eighteenth birthday in fitting style with a pub lunch?

I could go on. But, even as I list Rupert's qualities and achievements, I know that I am ignoring his greatest gift . . . his ability to make friends, and to make them on a grand scale.

If I'm to be honest, there was never any real doubt as to who was the dominant partner in our relationship.

"How's the boss?" friends would enquire.

But his was a benign and highly intelligent dictatorship, one to which I willingly and happily conceded. Far more important was the fact that the boss and I loved each other, a love that was to be one of the great blessings of my life.

The silence he left was infinitely more profound than the mere absence of noise. Numbed by the loss, I removed his many belongings. Rupert had always loved to lie on the sofa in the sun. His favourite blanket had been placed directly below the window. When I took away the blanket the sofa looked tired and shabby. Even worse, there was a hole in the fabric directly below where the blanket had sat. My spirits plunged even lower . . . no Rupert . . . no blanket . . . just a hole. A hole which seemed to symbolise so much more than worn upholstery.

Kind friends - also mourning his loss - were wonderfully supportive. They phoned and visited, brought gifts, sent emails, and wrote moving cards and letters.

I was deeply touched and heartened. Flowers filled the flat. An unusual gift came from Anna, a friend who teaches colour therapy. Anna had chosen to send a beautiful stole in soft shades of pink, blue and gold. It might, she said, bring new energies to the room, and she suggested I draped it over the furniture.

I looked at the folded stole . . . then opened it out and measured it against the sofa. To my surprise, it was the perfect length.

Very carefully, I stretched it to its fullest extent . . . it completely covered the sofa, from the hole at one end to the cushions at the other. The sun shone in through the window and the colours shimmered in the spring sunlight.

Where Rupert had been . . . where his blanket had been . . . where the hole had been . . . now lay this beautiful gift. A gift that raised my spirits every bit as much as Anna had hoped it would.

Anna had known nothing of Rupert's blanket, far less of the offending hole. Unwittingly (or with Rupert's help?) she had chosen to send the perfect gift.

Life goes on . . . a new chapter has started . . . but the chapter that has just closed is dedicated to Rupert. If I can't express just how much he meant to me, just how grateful I feel for those eighteen years of remarkable, loving companionship . . . well, it doesn't really matter.

He knows.

Pigs in the Park!

Hey! It's Rupert here. Yes, I know you were expecting a letter from my Mum, but you deserve the truth. She'd want to tell you a story with a happy ending . . . how Rupert loved visiting the pigs in Holland Park.

Loved visiting the pigs, be blowed!

Here's the story . . . you can judge for yourself!

We were going to see the pigs in the park, or so Mum told me.

"Hold on," I wanted to say, "What's this?"

Pigs . . . ? What were pigs . . .? And what were they doing in Holland Park? Squirrels I knew well, they were there by the dozen. Foxes could be seen frequently if you sat still and kept quiet. I liked squirrels and foxes.

But pigs . . . ?

My Mum explained that it was all part of a cunning plan. An area of the Arboretum was over-run with brambles. Were they to be treated with chemical weed-killer the other wildlife would suffer. Were the brambles to be dug up it would be impossible not to damage the bulbs. Pigs, who rooted out brambles and scorned bulbs, were the perfect solution. A Saddleback sow and three piglets were coming on a two-month visit from Charton Manor Farm in Kent. It would give the pigs a holiday and rid the Arboretum of brambles.

From the start of this story I was unhappy. For one thing, I like undergrowth and brambles. Mice and small birds can be seen scuttling under the brambles. Brambles provide cover, and cats like cover. It's only dogs who enjoy vast, open spaces . . . pigs, I was beginning to suspect, had a lot in common with dogs.

Last Friday morning we set off. I didn't want to quench my Mum's enthusiasm, but, between you and me, I was far from happy.
When we arrived I peered nervously under the fence . . . how big was your average pig? Was it mouse-sized or dog-sized? Was it timid, or (unwelcome thought) was it fierce? And, most important of all, what might be its attitude to a visiting cat?

I could see nothing unusual underneath the fence.
Then my Mum picked me up and I had a completely different view. Suddenly I could see this large enclosure . . . with a curious, tunnel thing in the middle . . . but where were the pigs?

A moment later something moved in the far distance. Were those small, fat blobs the piglets . . . ? I wouldn't say I was pleased to see them, but I must admit to a faint interest . . . they were hardly threatening all that way away.

It was only then that I heard an unfamiliar, snuffling sound. It was coming up from the region of Mum's knees . . . curious, I looked down . . .

Good Heavens! What was this . . . ?

Holding me tight, my Mum, who by now was very excited, kept on telling me to look!

Look . . . ? Was she mad . . .?

Would any cat, with the slightest instinct for self-preservation, want to look at that massive, twitching snout . . . those small, beady eyes . . . ? What was more, there was always the slight hope that if I didn't look down at this alarming pig she mightn't look up and see me. With every moment that passed the more certain I became that cats and pigs were not cut out for enduring friendships!

My Mum finally got the message and took me off to a peaceful area of the park where I slowly recovered.

So . . . just in case anyone ever suggests to you that cats enjoy visiting pigs, let me tell you this.

Where pigs are concerned, cats resemble snowdrops and daffodils. They'll stoically accept the temporary disruption, but just you watch them rejoice when the disturbance is over, the pigs depart, and peace returns to the park!

Two Ghosts in Galloway

Tell me, did you pick stars when you were little? No, I'm not being fanciful (or only slightly) but, when I was a child, living in the country, I really believed that, given a tall chair or a step-ladder, I could have reached up into the blackness and picked any number of the vast, shining stars that clustered in the night sky above the garden. They seemed so close . . . so tangible . . . so alluring.

Then we moved to the town . . . and the stars disappeared. But the stars also disappeared from the countryside, so it was wonderful to hear on the news the other day that the first Dark Sky Park in Europe has been established in Galloway. Now the children of Scotland can go star-picking!

I love Scotland. It's a country I've visited frequently. As a student, I even worked on a pig farm near Stirling . . . but that's another story!

Dumfries and Galloway is now in the news, but it was one of the lesser known regions of South-West Scotland when I took Rupert there a few years ago.

Have you been there? As you can see from this map, it's all rugged coastline and rocky inlets . . . quite staggeringly beautiful.
Most of my time was spent exploring the coast, but, one morning, lured by the attractions of the hinterland, I took the car and followed the narrow, winding road that went deep into the mountains. Not only did it go deeply in, it also went steeply up.

With Rupert sitting happily in his usual position on the passenger seat, we climbed . . . and climbed.
I began to get slightly worried. Had I enough petrol? What if we met another car on the very narrow, winding road? As I slowly realised, this particular mountain had two distinct gradients. One very steep, a regular challenge for climbers, the other more gentle which permitted our road to ascend almost to the summit.

It was quite a relief to reach the very small, wind-blown car-park. I stopped the car and looked out. Only yards away a track coiled upwards to the mountain peak. It seemed a pity to have come so far and not make the final few yards. A pity not to be able to say that Rupert had climbed a Scottish mountain . . . all right, ninety per cent of his ascent had been on four wheels, but at least he could make the short journey to the summit on four legs.

After attaching his lead, I let Rupert jump out of the car and we both of us started up the rocky track.
I wished I had put on climbing shoes . . . or climbing attire . . . or that I looked a little less out-of-place on a mountain-top. But, stumbling in shoes better suited to London, I made it round the rocky bend.

The view down from the summit was breath-taking. Rupert and I perched on a rock and drank in the incredible splendour.
Only then did I hear the unlikely sound of voices.
Way below us, climbing the mountain by the traditional means of stout sticks and nailed boots, came a party of climbers.
I watched their slow and laborious approach until, finally, they rounded a rock and saw us sitting there awaiting them.

Looking at their startled faces, I had the feeling that they knew nothing of the car-park. That, as far as they were concerned, theirs was the only means of reaching the summit. To have discovered a woman, dressed for the London streets, with, of all things, a Burmese cat on a lead . . . well, it must have prompted fears of hallucinations at the very least!

It seemed best not to try to explain.
They clearly felt the same and, without saying a word, silently moved on.

Did they think they'd seen a ghost . . . two ghosts?

Shall I tell you what I like to imagine? I like to imagine that, for evermore, in the pubs of Galloway, when people come in after gazing at the stars, and tales are told in the chilly winter evenings, this ghostly story will surface.
Of how, if you climb to the summit of the local mountain, there, looming out of the mist, you might encounter two fearful mountain ghosts.
One, a very strange woman from the city . . . the other, a large, grey cat on a lead!

Finding a friend in Clapham

Yes, I know . . . I'm sorry. This is Rupert, and you were expecting to hear from my Mum. But, if you don't mind, this is my story. There's no way that she could possibly understand the depth of my feelings.

So, just this once, you're hearing the dramatic details straight from me.

O.K . . . ?

It all happened a few days ago. I'd just finished my breakfast when Mum told me that we were going to Clapham to visit Jill and Abigail. This was good news. I love journeys in the car and

Jill has been a friend since I was a kitten. To be visiting Abigail was not quite such good news. I remembered her as the small human blob who sat on Jill's knee. A blob who had big eyes and squawked a lot.

Between you and me, I also thought my Mum paid her far too much attention. But there you

are, I'm a tolerant cat, and the small human blob never stayed for long.

When we arrived at Clapham I had a nasty shock.

The small human blob wasn't a blob any longer. She'd grown . . . my, how she'd grown! She'd become a small human person, and was running all over the place in a very alarming fashion. Large humans I can cope with, large humans I rather like. They look at me and say, "Beautiful!" - which is true, but always pleasing to hear. Small humans are a very different matter.

It seemed wise to find a comfortable bolt-hole and take stock of this tricky situation. At the far side of the room, I spotted a small, red tent . . . just the place for a cat in need of quiet reflection. As unobtrusively as I could, I hurried across the floor in search of this welcome sanctuary.

But the small human had spotted me (to give her her due, she seemed a highly intelligent small human).

"Meow . . . Meow!" she cried, waving her arms.

What was all that about?

I hadn't the faintest idea. Perhaps small humans speak a different language?

Reaching the small, red tent, I bolted inside.

But the small human had been watching me. Now down on the floor on all fours, she struggled to follow whilst Jill tried to stop her . . .

Crouching deep inside the tent, I gazed out through a chink in the drapery and grew increasingly worried.

Small humans, as I've discovered, can be very determined and, sure enough . . . this one finally made it.

There she was . . . looming up beside me in the tent . . . all waving arms and legs and big smiles!

Boy! Was I scared!

I must admit that she had a nice face. But you never know what small humans will do. They can pull your tail . . .

poke their small fingers in your eyes and ears . . . and, between you and me, I was thoroughly alarmed.

If it hadn't been for the cat's Golden Rule: "Behave Well When You Go Out Or You Won't Go Visiting Again", I don't know what I'd have done.

Then . . . all at once, the small human leaned forward and gave me a stroke.

It was such a soft stroke. A really gentle, loving kind of stroke.

"Meow . . . Meow!" she said.

Perhaps 'meow' means 'beautiful'?

Whatever it means, there was no doubt that this small human (now she's my friend, I'd better call her Abigail) meant no harm.

I began to relax.

Being trapped in a small tent with a total stranger wouldn't have been my idea of fun.

But . . . well, in the light of experience we can all change our views.

So . . . if Jill and Abigail invite us again . . . it might be quite enjoyable to return to Clapham!

For the sake of a conker . . .

Have you a moment for a chat? If so, may I tell you about a conker?

Rupert and I have just returned from a walk in Holland Park. It was perfect. Not as hot as it was yesterday . . . gentle autumnal sunshine and a slight breeze.
Rupert headed eagerly up the path leading to his favourite seat. Mind you, now that he's a little older, his movement, at its fastest, is still quite a relaxed pace. We strolled peacefully along, rustling our way through the fallen leaves.
Walking is what man was meant to do, it's our right speed. Walking allows time for looking, and thinking, and cogitating. What's more, it cuts down on the chance of making rash decisions.

Which reminds me . . . what did you think of the the plans for a new high-speed train to Scotland? How much time did they say it was going to cut off the existing journey? I think it was an hour-and-a-half!
All that cost, all that disruption, all that loss of countryside, just so that people could arrive in Edinburgh an hour and a half earlier than they might have done!
For goodness' sake, why? What would the passengers do with the precious ninety minutes that they'd gained? Ninety minutes that could have been spent enjoying a good book, or quietly appreciating a privileged view of the unfolding British countryside.
Why, I often wonder, do we all seem hell bent on going ever faster and faster? To save time for what? Just to rush somewhere else? And what happens when we arrive at our next crowded destination? We bump headlong into all those other people who, like the rest of us, are ceaselessly on the move!
Why . . . ?

As Rupert and I were walking up the path, something shiny caught my eye in the fallen leaves. It was a beautiful, glossy conker. I looked down at it and I couldn't help feeling sad. What chance was there of that conker ever fulfilling its promise? Of it growing into a chestnut tree and reaching maturity? It would need at least two hundred years. Has our planet got two hundred years? Well, yes, probably our planet has. But maybe not its wonderful diversity of created wildlife . . . including us. Would that conker ever grow into a tree that would give shade to our descendants?

If left where it was, I knew it hadn't a hope. The space for trees in Holland Park is only limited. If left there, amongst the leaves, its only future would have been as a snack for a squirrel.
On impulse, I bent down, picked it up, and put it in my pocket.

Stupid it may be, but do you know what I'm going to do? I'm planning to take it to the country. As a token of faith in man's capacity to come to his senses before we cut off the overloaded branch we're sitting on, I intend to plant this conker on Box Hill.

So . . . for the sake of this small seed's future, we must come to terms with climate change, solve the problem of population explosion, realise that speed doesn't necessarily equate with happiness, accept that bombs and bullets are no longer the answer (if they ever were), recognise that man cannot eat or drink money, and learn to appreciate and cherish all aspects of this fragile, inter-dependent, wonderful world.

Not much to ask for the future of one small conker?
No, not when you seriously think about it!

Cruelty to cats!

Oh dear . . . if, in the near future, I'm hauled up before the RSPCA, may I call upon you to speak in my defence?

As you know, Rupert and I went to Ham House yesterday for Ian's belated birthday celebration. We arrived, just before eleven, in the pouring rain. It was definitely not a moment to stroll around the garden. Huddled under umbrellas, we hurried to the shelter of the Orangery, and went inside for a cappuccino.

The cafe was deserted. Rupert settled himself happily on his chair whilst Ian and I sipped our coffee - they make particularly good cappuccinos at Ham House - and caught up on our news. Slowly, people drifted in. Slowly, the tables filled. As they did so, the grey clouds rolled back and, just as the forecast had promised, a welcome sun shone down from a stormy sky.
We must have been there half-an-hour when the sun outside proved inviting enough to tempt us out into the gardens. Rising from my chair, I attempted to transfer Rupert to his carrying bag.

Rupert had been thoroughly enjoying himself. No-one had noticed him, sitting quietly on his seat, and he had been having a wonderful time watching the activity. The last thing he wanted to do was to get back into his bag and, as he thought, go home.

And he said so! From being a totally silent cat, he suddenly became extremely vocal! The talking in the cafe instantly dried up, and a sea of surprised faces turned in our direction!
Could I get Rupert into his bag? Not on your life! He yelled his indignation . . . he hissed his indignation . . . he gave an Oscar-winning performance of a cat not wanting to go home!
Everyone was staring in shocked amazement at this unexpected pantomime.
"I'm so sorry," I apologised in embarrassment to the room at large, "I'm afraid he doesn't want to go home . . ."

Did they believe me . . . ? I don't think so. But, if they did, what terrors did they imagine this poor cat enduring in the privacy of its own home . . . ?
Their expressions were far from approving!

Finally, one woman rose to her feet and came over to see what was going on. To my relief, she fell for Rupert on sight!
"Oh . . . isn't he beautiful!" she exclaimed.
Mollified by this admiration, Rupert ceased to yell and blinked happily at his admirer. I took advantage of this cessation of hostilities to whip him into his bag.
"How old is he?" asked this new member of Rupert's fan club.
"Seventeen," I said.
"Good heavens!" she was flatteringly amazed, "You'd never think it."

By now Rupert's spirits were completely restored, and we hurried out for a happy walk round the garden.
As you can see, by the time we returned for an enjoyable lunch in the open air the indignant, yelling cat was no more than an optical and aural illusion!

Pentecost at Malmesbury

The one great constant in my life is that nothing is ever quite as I expect!

What had I anticipated for the Pentecostal service at Malmesbury Abbey? I’m not quite sure. Probably something rather conventional and a little formal. Do you remember me telling you about the Evensong I attended at Westminster Abbey a few weeks ago? It was a beautiful, disciplined, but soulless State occasion. I suppose I thought that Malmesbury Abbey would offer the rural equivalent.
I certainly didn’t expect what I got!

At Westminster, the service had restricted the congregation to the role of docile observers. Malmesbury, by contrast, went overboard in offering an occasion for whole-hearted participation!

No . . . I’m not being disparaging. Please don't think that for a moment. Unexpected it may have been, unfamiliar it definitely was . . . but it was also deeply moving. From the moment of arrival, I felt engulfed in good fellowship.

The service was passionate - not a word that usually springs to mind in relation to the Anglican Church! Never before have I seen the young and the middle-aged - all, seemingly, local people from the Wiltshire countryside - reaching out with their arms in evident joy and devotion. And, as they reached out to their God, so they also reached out to each other. For no apparent reason - certainly not one that could be linked to the service sheet - members of the congregation would suddenly and spontaneously swing round and embrace those standing beside them. Couples, young and old, stood singing the hymns with their arms intertwined. The love and goodwill were tangible.

I don't believe in leaving Rupert in the car, so I had him with me. He is totally dependable on such occasions, more to the point, he thoroughly enjoys them.
However, Malmesbury Abbey was to test even Rupert’s good manners. Around him people stood up, sat down, sang, prayed, gesticulated, and moved up to and back from the altar. Unmoved, Rupert continued to sit solemnly on his chair beside me in the back row. It wasn’t until the closing moments, when the Vicar was delivering the blessing, that Rupert stirred.

“Go in peace . . .” said the Vicar.
“Miaow!” said Rupert, clearly and distinctly. He rose to his feet, stretched . . . and, as the congregation responded to the blessing, jumped neatly to the ground!
The ninety nine per cent of the congregation who had been totally unaware of the cat in their midst, reacted in surprise and amusement. Even I, used as I am to his good behaviour, was amazed that he could have known that the service had ended.
Was it the blessing? No-one had yet started to leave. How did he know? It’s a mystery . . . and Rupert has no intention of enlightening me!

There's so much about that morning that will linger in my memory.
All right . . . arm stretching, clapping and hugging, may not be the norm on my spiritual journey - nor was the strong evangelical theme - but to each his own path. Standing on the verge of this one, observing the friendly people as they strode confidently along the way they had chosen for themselves, was something that I won’t forget and would never dream of criticising.

More than that, Malmesbury gave me a Pentecost for which I’m truly grateful.
Bless you for sharing it.