Written at the Arvon Foundation, Lumb Bank, Yorkshire
I had never considered cats
until Nadia said I should:
‘If a person likes a cat,
then that person must be nice.’
So I seized the chance to be good
by taking her advice.
When Muffin (not the mule) called
around midnight to inspect the room
I was, at first, distinctly cool.
Until, remembering the New Me,
I praised felinity and made tea.
Offered him a biscuit. A cigarette.
Tried to make conversation.
He’d not be drawn. Not beaten yet
I showed him my collection
of Yugoslavian beermats.
He was unimpressed. (Queer, cats.)
At 2 a.m. I got out the whisky.
He turned up his nose.
After a few glasses I told him
about the problems at home.
The job. My soul I laid bare.
And all he did was stare.
Curled up on the duvet
with that cat-like expression.
Not a nod of encouragement.
Not a mew. Imagine the scene;
I felt like that intruder
on the bed with the Queen.
But I soldiered on till morning
and despite his constant yawning
told him what was wrong with the country.
The class system, nuclear disarmament,
the unions, free-range eggs.
I don’t know what time he left.
I fell asleep. Woke up at four
With a hangover the size of a Yorkshire Moor.
And my tongue (dare I say it?) furry.
Since then, whenever I see the damn thing
He’s away up the mountain to hide.
And I was only being friendly.
I tried, Nadia, I tried.