An invitation to Rio

May I share some good news?
It's a heart-warming story, one that we can celebrate together.

Did you know that, amongst the national teams at this year's Olympic Games, the IOC has chosen to include a ten-member team of refugees?

"These refugees have no home, no team, no flag, no national anthem," said the IOC President, Thomas Bach, "they will show the world that, despite the unimaginable tragedies that they've faced, anyone can  contribute to society through their talent, skills and the strength of the human spirit."

This is not a token team, one that has little hope of achieving medals.  Instead, it comprises skilled athletes who have been training hard in the countries that have offered them a home.

Refugees from Syria, South Sudan, Ethiopia, and the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Refugees who now reside in Germany, Brazil, Kenya, Belgium, Luxembourg and Kenya.

Yusra Mardini, who comes from war-torn Syria, now lives and trains in Berlin.
Four years ago, as she was trying to cross the Mediterranean in an overcrowded boat, the flimsy vessel started taking on water.  Yusra slipped down into the water and helped to push it towards the safety of Lesbos.

As she struggled in the sea, could she, I wonder, have dared to dream just where these swimming skills would lead her?

Only her own courage, coupled with the generosity of the people of Berlin, made this possible.  "I want to show everyone," she says, "that after the pain, after the storm, comes calm days."

And what of Anjelina Nadal Lohalith, who hasn't seen or spoken to her parents since fleeing Southern Sudan at the age of six?

Helping her parents is her chief motivation in the build-up to the 1,500 metre event . . . whilst coverage of the Games will, she hopes, enable them to discover her whereabouts.

This Friday will see the realisation of their dreams . . .  the moment they've been focussing on will finally arrive.
The refugee team will walk into the Olympic Stadium ahead of the host country, Brazil.
The Olympic flag will precede them, and the Olympic anthem will be played in their honour.

Against all odds, they will be participating in the Games.  It's the outcome of the IOC's wisdom, coupled with their own courage and abilities.

However, as I'm sure you'd agree, there are two other factors that mustn't be overlooked.  Firstly,  the generosity of those countries who not only offered sanctuary to the refugees, but also provided the all-important training that's transported them to Rio.
And, secondly, the families of the refugee athletes, many of whom are still trapped in areas of heavy fighting.  May this be an opportunity for them to rediscover their offspring, and rejoice in their abilities.

Would you like to meet the team?
Then click here . . . and join me in wishing them every possible success!

By Royal Appointment!

Hello, it's Chloe here . . .  I've some really exciting news to share.
Have you a spare moment . . . ?

I don't know if you've been there, but there's a pub across the road from where we live.  It's called The Windsor Castle.

My Mum and her friends really like going there for lunch, and, when they do, I make dead certain they don't leave me behind!

Needless to say, I'm always on my very best behaviour . . .  as you can see in this photo with one of my friends.  And, between you and me, everyone seems to agree just how much an intelligent cat can bring to such occasions. 

Well, you'll never guess what happened last week.  The person behind the bar came up to our table carrying a camera.
Would we mind, she wanted to know, if she took my photo?

Mind . . . ?  I love having my photo taken, so I gave an enthusiastic, "Miaow!".
And my Mum was very pleased when the person explained her reason.
It seems The Windsor Castle is having a Hall of Fame, a place to display photos of all the dogs who visit the pub, and of me . . . the one and only visiting cat!

I don't want to sound conceited, but are there any other cats on a pub's Hall of Fame?  I doubt it!

But now we get to the really exciting part.
The next day my Mum had the radio on.  They were talking about the Queen and it seemed she'd just celebrated her 90th birthday.  Well,  I'm as patriotic as the next cat, so I pricked up my ears.

And do you know what they said?
They said that the Queen's birthday celebrations had all taken place at . . . wait for it . . .  The Windsor Castle!  Did you know that?

You can just imagine how my tail twitched with excitement!
Who would have thought it?  My Mum never told me.
I know that kings and queens have lots of homes, but I'd never dreamed that our Queen had one just across the road from my Mum and me!

Come to think of it, I suppose she lives upstairs when she comes to stay.  I've certainly never seen her behind the bar.

But shall I tell you why I'm really excited?

Did you know that queens, unlike cats, have two birthdays every year? It seems that our Queen is due for another one on June 11th.

What I'm wondering is . . .  will she come back to The Windsor Castle?
And do you think that, if she does, she'll want to meet the very well-behaved and patriotic Bengal Cat who's going to share the Hall of Fame with her corgis?

Watch this space . . . and if you'd like to see the Hall of Fame for yourself, then please, do come and join us for lunch!

From Lesbos with love

Have you a moment to spare . . . a moment to share a website I've discovered?


The story featured may have reached you already, it was mentioned by the BBC and covered in the Press.
But, if it escaped your attention, I know you'll find it as remarkable and moving as I did.  As you'll see, it's packed full of all those admirable qualities which, so we're told, are sadly lacking in modern life.

If we're to believe the media, modern man has three dominating emotions . . . fear, greed and self-concern.
It's rare to hear a political leader espousing kindness, co-operation or the interests of others.
But it's these emotions that lie at the core of this heart-warming tale.

Let me whet your appetite . . . last year a family in Iraq, a family with five children and a small, white cat, fled their war-ravaged homeland in search of peace and security in Europe.

Together with thousands of other refugees, they journeyed south to Turkey where, squeezed into an open boat, they managed to cross the Aegean Sea.

All went well, and the family arrived safely on the island of Lesbos.

But this was where trouble struck.
The small, white cat, who had happily accompanied them in his basket for so many hundreds of miles,  became scared by the chaotic conditions.

Wriggling free, he disappeared into the maze of winding side-streets.    After searching desperately for a week, the family were forced to move on, carrying an empty cat-basket.


I won't spoil the story by telling you what happened next.  Suffice to say that, as a species, we are far kinder, far more compassionate and infinitely more resourceful than we allow ourselves to believe.

Fearful . . . greedy . . . self-obsessed?  Far from it!
Click here, and re-evaluate both cats and those who care for them.

We should be justifiably proud of our potential as  caring and resourceful human beings!

Changing Tunes

I was invited to a very moving talk this week.  May I tell you about it?

The two speakers had come to tell us about 'Changing Tunes', a charity which, in its own words, aims to reduce re-offending through music.   And it's been very successful.  Spreading out from its origins in Bristol, it now covers a large part of the country and has attracted many supporters including Sir Simon Rattle and Sir Tim Rice.

To reduce re-offending through music is a remarkable aim . . . but how is it achieved?
They do it, so we were told, through personal contact.

Highly-trained and motivated musicians from 'Changing Tunes', together with volunteers ranging from City lawyers to professional sportsmen, visit UK prisons on a regular basis.
Here they spend time with the prisoners and invite them to participate in making music.

I hope you noticed my choice of the word 'invite'.  In a prison there are no invitations, the pattern of an inmate's life is wholly dictated.  This is the one and only occasion when a prisoner is asked what he would like to contribute . . . by so doing he is, one might say, liberated into the world of music.


It appears that over the past twenty years the prison population of this country has increased by nearly ninety per cent, and is now the highest in Western Europe.  Re-conviction rates are also alarmingly high.   At the same time, those who've benefitted from the visits of 'Changing Tunes', and have had continuing support after their release, have proved dramatically less likely to re-offend.  Some, we were told, have even moved on to establish a career in music.


I recommend that you visit the 'Changing Tunes' website and see for yourself just how they use the universal language of music to convey their message.
You'll marvel, as I did, at the impressive way in which this dedicated charity is reclaiming lost lives.

One of the reasons I attended this talk was because, as a correspondence-course tutor, I've some personal knowledge of working with prisoners.  The American prison system accepts this particular course as being suitable for long-term inmates.  Because of this, I've corresponded on a regular basis with several offenders. For me it's has proved a wholly enriching experience.

I've learned that a prisoner is first and foremost a person, that, like the rest of us, each one is unique, that this person will, in due course, re-enter society, and that any support we can offer supports everyone.

My contribution to the prisoners' lives has been small.  I merely sit at home and write, I don't meet them in person.  But, for all that, I know how much the course can mean in their progress towards rehabilitation.

May I share part of the final letter I received from one of my students.  It was written shortly before his release.  Although he's thinking in terms of his completed course, his words speak for the bigger picture . . . the re-education and rehabilitation of offenders.  Seen in that light, what he writes could easily apply to all those prisoners whose lives have been turned around to such marked benefit by 'Changing Tunes'.

This is what he wrote . . . 

"Many men succumb to the trials of prison life.  Enveloped by the darkness they cast no shadow.  
The pillars of light generated from within the heart of this work allowed me to not only cast a shadow, but to see my reflection.  Knowing that I am made everything possible."

Through the kitchen window . . .

May I tell you a story that features a friend of mine?  She shared it with me last week.
It's an incident that she'd watched unfolding through her kitchen window, and it's such a heart-warming story that I'm sure you won't mind hearing it second-hand.

My friend lives in London.  Her flat overlooks a busy pavement, a noisy road, and the entrance to an underground station.
Each morning, sitting by her kitchen window, she enjoys her breakfast whilst watching the world hurry past.

There are many people going by . . .  some of whom, over time, she's come to recognise.
There are the pupils, often late for school, who rush by the window clasping their homework.
There are the office workers waiting at the bus stop, looking for a bus to transport them to work.
And there are the cars that draw up by the pavement, disgorging passengers who then rush into the station to catch the next tube into town.

My friend had grown familiar with one such car which stopped briefly outside her flat each weekday morning.
From the passenger seat would emerge a young man.  Invariably, he would reach back inside the car for his briefcase, accept a lidded paper cup of coffee from the driver and then, clasping briefcase and coffee, dash into the melee at the station entrance.

However, last Friday, as my friend munched her toast, she was in for a surprise.

The accustomed car drew up . . . the passenger got out . . . but what was this?
Instead of reaching back inside the car for his briefcase or accepting the proffered coffee, he was fumbling with his jacket. Out of the pocket he drew what appeared to be a small box and . . . my friend peered forward in excitement, what was going on?

The young man had dropped to one knee on the pavement and . . . no, she thought, surely not!
Putting down her half-eaten slice of toast, my friend moved closer to the window . . . the young man was opening the box and removing a small object that gleamed in the morning sun.

My friend screwed up here eyes to look . . . was it a ring?
She had never seen the driver of the car, but the normal pattern of events was rapidly changing.
A young woman emerged from the driver's door and, clearly flushed, came to stand by the kneeling young man.

Yes, my friend decided, peering excitedly through the window, it was definitely a ring.
The young man held it out . . . the young woman looked down at  him . . .

At this critical juncture, a large bus drew up outside the flat and everything else was blocked from view.

When the bus had discharged its departing passengers, absorbed its new ones, and finally continued on its journey, the parked car had gone.
Of the young man there was nothing to be seen.
My poor friend, who had been wholly absorbed in the gripping story, was left wondering . . . had they?  Hadn't they . . . ?

On Monday, as she watched intently from her window, it was clear that the usual pattern of behaviour had reasserted itself.
But my friend is quite convinced of one thing.  As the driver's hand reached out to give the young man his coffee there was something new and sparkling on her fourth finger!

In an unsettled world, how good to share an indisputably happy story.

A Cotton Ceiling

Tell me, which would you rather have, cotton or marble?
Give me cotton any day . . . particularly when you're near the top of an ageing Victorian building.
But let me explain . . .

Do you remember me telling you that the penthouse above my flat had been transformed, what had been a family home was now an investment?  It had been purchased by a sheikh from the Middle East. Bullet-proof doors had been installed and heavy marble laid on the Victorian floors . . . the sheikh, so I was given to understand, intended to pay short and infrequent visits to his new investment

Saddened by the change, I anticipated seeing very little of this new neighbour.

Then, at the start of last month I was disturbed by the sound of footsteps on my ceiling . . . my neighbour, I realised, had arrived for his first, short visit.
I'd never been disturbed by overhead neighbours before . . . marble, it seemed, was noisy as well as heavy.

But far worse was to follow.  Shortly after the footsteps I was shocked to notice small bubbles of water which, having penetrated the edge of the hall ceiling, were rapidly patterning the wall.

Appalled at this turn of events, I rushed out of my front-door, up the stairs and hammered on the bullet-proof door.
There was no response.  I hammered again.
An Arab gentleman, whom I took to be the sheikh's valet, appeared in the doorway looking a little surprised.

"Water!" I told him indignantly, "It's coming through my ceiling!"
The valet inclined his head, "We will look into it," he said soothingly.
"I don't want it looked into," I protested, "Something needs to be done NOW!"
The valet, who had clearly had enough of this excitable Englishwoman, gave a polite nod and tried to close the door.  However, as my foot was firmly in the gap, this effort defeated him.

It occurred to me that, high on the list of every valet's Code of Conduct, must be the firm instruction: 'Never disturb your Master in the bath'!
But surely this was a time when rules needed to be broken?
"Now . . . please!" I pleaded.

The valet, torn between duty and a genuine desire to respond to my distress, finally made his way down the passage and, as I watched, knocked tentatively on the bathroom door.


Anxious to know if my mission had succeeded, I hurried back down the stairs.  To my relief, the water was no longer oozing out of the ceiling.

But any relief was to be short-lived.  What I hadn't realised was that the sheikh had installed no less than three bathrooms.
Deprived of bathroom number one, he had, it seemed, simply resorted to bathroom number two, where, once again, he had turned on the taps.
This time the water didn't merely trickle down the wall, it cascaded with joyous abandon from the centre of the hall ceiling.

Buckets, saucepans, dishes . . . every water-collectible vessel I had . . . was called into action to try to contain the incessant downpour.

Things had become serious.
The valet came . . .  the sheik's representative-on-all-things-structural came . . .  the plumbers came.
It was generally agreed that action, speedy action, needed to be taken.

But how could they get to the pipes and discover what was wrong?
Yes, you've guessed it.  Because of the weight of the marble they could no longer tackle the job from above . . . entry to the pipes had to be from underneath, up through my hall ceiling!

They would, the sheikh's representative assured me, repair all the damage.
In due course they would plaster and repaint the hall.  They would replace my sodden hall rug.
"You can't," I told them sadly, "my Grandmother made it."

Suitably sobered, they set to work.  It was hours later that they finally assured me that they'd discovered the cause of the trouble and put a temporary patch on my damaged ceiling.

But was the problem solved?  I was far from convinced.
Water trickling through the bathroom ceiling a few days later further fuelled my anxieties.  What if they plastered and painted the hall only for the leak to re-open?

From being blissfully unaware of the  intricate web of piping so close to my ceiling, I was now only too conscious of the powerful flow of water . . . water clean and water dirty . . .  that was circulating above my head.

It was then that inspiration struck.
"I know what we'll do . . . " I told the man in charge, "until we're certain that all the leaks have been traced, we'll have a cotton ceiling!"
He looked a little bemused, "I've never heard of a cotton ceiling?"
"Nor have I . . . but couldn't you fasten a cotton dust-sheet right across the ceiling?  It could stay up for a least a year.  Just think about it . . ."

And so it was that, with Chloe's enthusiastic assistance, a top-quality dust-sheet was screwed firmly into place.

The sheikh has now departed, he'll be gone for at least two months.  My flat has finally dried out.  But, as a permanent reminder of a traumatic episode, I've acquired a cotton ceiling.

Nonetheless, if I'm to be honest I must admit to being proud of  my idea . . . I like my cotton ceiling.
It's unusual . . . it's distinctive . . . and it effectively conceals all the damage.
If you find yourself in London, you're welcome to drop in and see if for yourself.

The moral of the story . . . ?
Well, surely it must be that you can't impose the weight of modern wealth on an old and fragile superstructure.

Do you understand why it is that I prefer cotton to marble?
After giving the new ceiling a thorough inspection, Chloe completely agrees!

We that are left grow old . . .

It's been a time of remembrance . . . a time of honouring the fallen . . . a time of reflecting on the tragedy of young lives lost in warfare.
"They shall not grow old," we've been reminded, "as we that are left grow old . . . "

It's true.
But let's switch our minds for a moment from that heart-wrenching moat of poppies to 'we who are left' . . . we who are left to grow old.

Surely we owe a debt to those who died?  Surely we owe it to them to make our old age a time of celebration?  A time to of fulfilment, passion and positivity?

Sad to say, all too often this is not the case.  But it seems timely that, in Remembrance Week, I should have learned of an Australian initiative, the 'Men in Sheds' movement, which aims at doing just that, and which was recently introduced to the UK.

It can be forgotten that, at heart, we're creative beings.  Without the incentive and urge to create, in effect we cease to be.  What's more, age does not diminish this creativity.  Which prompts the question, why are so many elderly people deprived of an outlet for their abilities?

Men, in particular, can find retirement very hard, unless . . . yes, you've guessed what's coming next . . . unless they have the opportunities afforded by a garden shed.  A shed, or a workshop, in which they can hone their skills and promote the flow of their natural talents.

Since its inception in Australia in 1995,  'Men in Sheds', a movement which fosters friendship as well as activity, has extended its beneficial work worldwide.

Here in the UK, over a hundred and forty flourishing Sheds have already been established.  Stretching to all corners of the kingdom, their imaginative activities range from growing moustaches as a charity fund-raiser, to building a Viking boat!

I must admit to a personal interest in this venture as it endorses my own experience.

Every week, on behalf of the Pets As Therapy charity, I take Chloe, my cat, to visit our local care home.  It's a very good care home.  The elderly residents are well looked after, in-house activities and entertainment are provided, the individual rooms are immaculate.

If any of the newcomers express the desire to see Chloe, I take her to to meet them shortly after their arrival.  At this point, with few exceptions, the men and women are articulate, self-possessed and confident . . .  happy to chat and circulate.  But, as the months pass, almost invariably I observe this individuality and self-confidence being eroded.

Why is it eroded?  Quite simply because they have little say in their own lives, no responsibilities, no major decisions to make, no work to undertake, no outlets for their abilities.

Although physically fit, they often spend the greater part of their day on their beds.  There's no point, as they see it, in getting up.

It's not enough to be alive.  It's not enough to  be mentally and physically fit.  There's a vital need for a sense of purpose, for the knowledge that our talents are contributing to the welfare of the whole, that we are each of us a vital and unique piece in the evolving jig-saw of humanity.

So, as we honour and remember the young who died, let's celebrate the work of Men in Sheds.
Let's honour an older generation whose members are fired by an ageless sense of purpose.

And, should they need an example to guide them on their way, there's a shining star in Iowa who can offer them limitless inspiration!

Yes, it's true, 'we that are left grow old' . . . but wouldn't you agree that we owe it to the fallen to make this a life-affirming process?

The Trench Cello

Tell me, have you heard of the 'trench cello'?

It came out of obscurity this week to steal the limelight.
Not only was it featured on Radio 4, but, as part of the War Music season at The Royal Academy of Music, the trench cello was played by the distinguished cellist, Steven Isserlis.

The instrument used will be on display at the Academy until March 2015, and you can listen to it here.

Trench cello . . . the name speaks for itself.  Unlikely as it may seem, this particular cello was played in the trenches of the Western Front during the First World War.

True, music has long been associated with warfare . . . each regiment takes pride in its band.  Not only that, a rousing march can revitalise weary troops, whilst certain music evokes national pride and loyalty.

But a cello in a trench . . .?  This isn't what springs to mind when you think of music on the frontline.

It appears that this instrument was owned by a Lieutenant Triggs of the Royal Suffolk Regiment.  Constructed so as to be easily portable, it was a cello that could be quickly assembled from parts contained in a box, whilst the box itself formed the framework.

Even the bow served a dual purpose.  It had been cleverly designed so that, by blowing down a hollow indentation at one end, the player could produce the note 'A', thereby enabling him to tune his instrument.

But just think about it for a moment.  A soldier about to go fighting on the frontline must give careful consideration to every item he chooses to take, weight is an important factor.  In all probability, in addition to clothing, he would want to take some photos of his family, perhaps a favourite book, maybe a camera . . . but a cello?

Lieutenant Triggs was clearly a keen musician, but he must have been driven by an emotion far stronger than a mere wish to display his talent.   Was it the realisation of what the music would mean under the stress of conflict that prompted him to carry such an unlikely burden into battle?

And what was of benefit to him was of equal benefit to others.  Still contained in the case is a note from the poet Edmund Blunden, written after the battle of Ypres, in which he tells of his delight at the impromptu concerts in the trenches.

Pondering on this story, a thought struck me.  Don't we each of us have our own trench cello?

There's the tune that we hum when we're feeling stressed or in need of courage.  There's the music that we play to lift our spirits.  Music, the universal language, has an unique power . . . the power to elevate and transform the listener.

Perhaps it's music, not ammunitions, that we should be sending to the world's trouble spots.  Perhaps it's concerts, not conflict, that would unite us.
Just listen to the first movement of Elgar's cello concerto, written in the aftermath of the First World War . . . see if you agree.

Music or mayhem . . . ?  Surely there's no contest!

A very helpful Best Friend

Hello, it's Chloe here.

Don't tell my Mum, but, as I'm sure you'll agree, this is my story and I'm the one who should share it with you.
You know my Mum, she means well, but she always gets her facts in a tangle.

Let's start at the beginning.

I've a new friend . . . you can see us in this photo.   Mum calls him my Best Friend . . . it's a bit of an exaggeration, but I don't argue . . .  and we play together.

No, that's not quite accurate.
I say that we play together, but what really happens is that I give him his daily exercise.

How?
Well, I make him run very fast around the garden.  My Mum gives him the end of my lead and, once I'm sure he's holding it tightly, I gallop off . . . oh boy, do I make him run!

But we also stop and chat, and, all in all, he's not a bad little boy . . . as little boys go.

The other afternoon, Mum and I were in the garden, feeding the birds by the pond.

We do this every day and, you can take it from me, those birds aren't as dim as they look.   Each time we arrive they're up there in the bushes, waiting for the birdseed.

But we have an agreement, Mum and I . . . if I'm very good when the blackbirds and the robins fly down to feed, then Mum pretends she doesn't notice if I chase those pesky pigeons!

Tell me, have you ever tried pond water?  It tastes of fish, and pollen, and sometimes there's even a tinge of duck . . .  believe me, it's absolutely delicious!

Watching the birds on a sunny afternoon is thirsty business, so, after the blackbirds and robins had gone the other day, I balanced carefully on the edge of the pond and had a good drink.

You should have seen my Mum's reaction . . . she got all excited, tugged hard on the lead, and kept insisting that pond water was bad for me.

This was ridiculous, and I was just about to tell her so when who should appear but my Best Friend.  Before I'd even had a chance to say a polite 'Miaow', my Mum had told him all about me having that drink from the pond.

You'll never guess what happened next.  Off rushed my Best Friend, and he came back carrying a small, red can which he put down by my paws.  If I was thirsty, he said, I could drink from his can.

Well, as you can imagine, I was more than a little surprised.  It was a kind thought, there was no arguing with that.

But, when I sniffed the small, red can I was very disappointed.  It was full to the brim with ordinary, dull tap-water.  Nowhere near as exciting and tasty as the water in the pond.

Nonetheless, as I told myself, my Best Friend had thought he was being kind and he'd gone to a lot of trouble.
So, as a gesture of friendship, I did give the spout a small suck . . . just to make him happy.

Now, if my Mum was telling this story she'd insist that my Best Friend had saved me from an upset tummy.

What rubbish!
But, as you can see, he's a very well-intentioned little boy . . . and, who knows, if I can get him down to the pond when my Mum isn't looking, I might even persuade him to find out just how delicious pond water can be.
Don't tell  my Mum!

A soul for sale?

What is it about the letter 'f'?  It precedes not only 'fear' and 'fight', but also 'finance'.  What's more, finance, when it reaches the higher brackets, would seem to breed both fanciful fears and fanaticism.

No, I'm not just having fun playing with words, I'm speaking from personal experience.
Finance and fear have invaded the house where I live.

An unpretentious house in a quiet, residential area of West London, it is part of a Victorian terrace that surrounds a garden square.  Many years ago, the two houses at the end of the terrace were knocked into one which, in turn, was converted into eighteen flats.  I have one of the flats, and, like most of the residents in the building, have been here for many years.  We are a friendly, supportive group . . . familiar with each other's lives, sharing the communal garden, and taking an active part in the local community.


Not many months ago, into this peaceful, untroubled scenario came an unexpected arrival.  The top floor of the house, previously two flats, was bought by a wealthy purchaser in the Middle East.  It will, so we learn, be occupied twice a year for short periods.  In the meantime, the work of reconstruction has been phenomenal.

Every wall had been taken down, every inch of flooring taken up and now, richly adorned in marble, the luxury penthouse is almost ready for its new owner's first visit.

But what has shocked those of us who live below has been the extent of the security measures installed.  Not only does the flat now boast bullet-proof dooors, but a series of cameras follows every visitor up the communal stairs and around the top floor passages.  In addition, an alarm has been attached to the communal lift, which now gives voice to any unexpected arrival on the top floor.


On learning of these excessive security arrangements, the residents united in taking action.  The purchaser had no right to instal his cameras in a communal area.  We insisted on their removal.

Why had our new neighbour felt the need for such measures?
Why the bullet-proof doors?  Who is he afraid will visit him?
We have no idea.

But extreme wealth would seem to breed fear.  It is also noticeable that this invasion of wealth and fear is permeating the neighbourhood.  As you walk down our residential streets, many of the garden gates that once opened easily to allow entry have now been replaced by heavy metal structures.  The casual visitor is no longer encouraged.

What's more, in recent years developers in the area have favoured gated communities, communities that, once again, provide shelter for their residents behind protective barriers.
Shelter from whom . . . from what?

I wonder, will the new owner above me share the use of our communal garden?  Will he and his family attend the local church or mosque, and will they become members of the local residents' association?
Their brief and infrequent visits makes it doubtful . . . we can only hope that they will.

But there remains the bigger question . . . will London homes continue to be purchased, largely by overseas buyers, mainly for their investment value?

Looking at the district where I live, is it too fanciful to say that it feels as though it is being slowly consumed by a rapacious and many tentacled octopus.

Could it be that, in the not too distant future, purchase power will succeed where the power of Hitler failed?  What if an invasion by the invisible force of economics ousts the Londoners from London?  What if the streets around my home, streets which fostered Chesterton, Brunel and Pinter, become little more than a series of sterile bank vaults, vaults that are flanked by shuttered, unoccupied investments?

Next week our local residents' association holds its annual Garden Party.  A local caterer provides the food, a local Jazz Band keeps us entertained.  It's a highly popular event . . .  attended by teachers and pupils from the local school and supported by the local church.

Ultimately, can fellowship, kindness and goodwill prove stronger than the corrosive power of finance?
Can community spirit prevail?

If not . . . then surely London will have sold its soul, and, whatever the City's economists may say, no price-tag can be put on that.

A walk with Emily

Chloe here . . . there's a story I'd love to share with you . . .  but, before I do, may I ask you a favour?
Please, don't tell my Mum . . . you won't will you?
It's just that she mightn't understand . . . and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.
I love my Mum

But, as I'll explain, if she hadn't caught a cold . . . well, it wouldn't have happened . . . and look what I'd have missed!

It was last week when my Mum started sneezing.  She really did it properly.  Sneezing all day . . . and disturbing my sleep by sneezing at night.  Believe you me, it wasn't funny.

True, I did my best to look after her . . . lot of sympathetic kisses and bringing my favourite mouse to cheer her up . . . but it meant that she couldn't do the really important things, like taking me out for my walks.
I was trapped inside . . . things were getting serious.

Mind you, my Mum did come up with one idea.  She put on my harness and lead, took me down to the hall, opened the front door, and let me walk out onto the pavement.  She then closed the door behind me so that she could stay sneezing in the hall.

It's a long lead, so I had a good view of all that was happening up and down our road . . . the cars, the people, and those pompous pigeons . . . but it was nothing like as satisfying as a proper walk.

But then my Mum came up with an even better idea.

We have a good friend called Emily.  Emily uses a big hoover and pushes Mum's letters through our letter-box.  I like Emily.
She has an important seat near to the front door and, when we went down to the hall the next morning, my Mum asked her if she had a  moment to spare, and whether she'd be very kind and take me for a walk.

You can imagine how I pricked up my ears!
It was a purrfect idea!

I don't want to criticise my Mum,  but she can be . . . how shall I put it . . . a little inflexible when I come up with the mildest of suggestions about our walks.
Emily, on the other hand, is a lovely, trusting person . . . just the sort of person who, when asked to take a cat for a walk, will accept the guidance of the cat . . . I couldn't wait to get started!

Kind Emily fully believed me when I  told her that my Mum always lets me do exactly what I like in the garden . . . well, it was only a whisker away from the truth.

Emily also fully believed me when I told her that my Mum encourages me to climb to the very top branches of my favourite tree . . . well, there was no point in mentioning that sometimes my paws slide and I get stuck, and that my Mum has to climb up and rescue me . . . and that, for some reason, my Mum doesn't like climbing down trees backwards, carrying a wriggling cat . . . I was sure that Emily wouldn't want to be bothered with such trivialities.


I had a wonderful walk . . . I think Emily enjoyed it, too . . . and I definitely didn't want to go back indoors.
In fact, I'm afraid my Mum was a little disappointed that I didn't go rushing in to join her when we finally made it back to the front door.

Perhaps it wasn't very tactful of me to linger wistfully in the doorway . . . particularly as she did have such a nasty cold.

Whatever you do, don't tell my Mum I said this, but, in a funny way, I was almost sorry when she told me the next morning that her cold was getting better.   I'd been secretly hoping for another exciting walk with Emily . . . perhaps a sight-seeing visit to the school next door.  I'd stuck my head through the railings last week, just to show my Mum where I wanted to go, but she's awfully slow at picking up hints . . . Emily, I'm certain, could easily have been encouraged to explore.

Ah well . . . life is now back to normal . . . and I have to admit that, even without  Emily, life in the garden is far from dull.

 There's nothing to stop me keeping a keen eye on those pesky squirrels . . . and I'm truly glad that my poor Mum has stopped sneezing.
I do love my Mum!