Read-only memory

My wife's flicking through photos of Rupert the cat on her phone. One shows him almost seventeen years ago, a tiny saucer-eyed creature with exactly the same symmetrical black-and-white markings as the adult cat I came to know. "I miss my little kitten", she says. I miss him too, although he was never my little kitten. Instead, he chose to adopt me in middle age. (His, obviously. I'm still in denial about mine.) Sadly, Rupert's not been himself for several weeks, which is why we're consoling ourselves by looking through old photos. At the moment he's sitting on the bedroom windowsill, although we only know it's him because his name's written on the label attached to a little wicker wallet. The preceding words on the label are 'In Loving Memory Of'.

Rupert had been forgetting things for a few months. He'd forgotten where his outdoor toilet was. Then he forgot to eat. Eventually he forgot to keep breathing, too. One Friday morning, we woke up but he didn't. We found him lying in his bed with his offside front leg stretched forwards, looking about as relaxed as he ever did. Frozen in the perfect taxidermy of death.

We couldn't bury him under his favourite tree because we were moving house and didn't want to leave him behind. So we had him cremated at Raystede's Peaceways crematorium, where we bid a sad farewell to him in his feline form and retrieved him a few days later in a disconcertingly gritty pocket-sized packet. And we wept, not just for the cat we'd lost but also for the love we weren't able to give him any more, for the extra love he'd never know.

Of course, he's haunting our new home. Bad ghosts haunt with a malevolent presence. They put white sheets over their heads and say "woo". A cat poltergeist might yowl mysteriously from the wardrobe at midnight or nibble their initials into an unwary mouse. Rupert haunts us with his absence. We know the shadow by the window isn't his. There's a cat-sized gap on the sofa between me and Mrs B. The buttery crumpet crumbs remain on our breakfast plates.

We'd expected to lose something when we moved. A picture frame was dropped. A self-assembly cupboard started disassembling itself. We spent a week with only a single cereal bowl between us before the rest of the mismatched set emerged. But we'd not expected to leave some of our happy memories behind.

Fortunately, plenty remain. We have hundreds of Rupert photos, all copied to secure online storage in some Californian bunker. Most importantly, we still have Harry, the backup cat. He's very fond of his new home... and of sitting in the extra space that's now available on the sofa. It almost looks like he's posing for a portrait.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 132 September 2017

Fleshing it out

In my mind there's an almost-onomatopoeic sizzle to the word 'flesh', echoing the fizz of a pork sausage as it bounces into a frying pan. Given such a topic for February’s column, my thoughts immediately turn to the meaty delights of Lew Howard and Son, the butcher in Ringmer’s parade of shops. I particularly like their simple process for ordering a Christmas turkey, which involves a numbered list of customers on a giant board. For a while I convinced our youngest family member that each bird was wandering around a field with a corresponding number on a label tied gently around its neck until a few days before 25th December, when it would be caught and dispatched. "Come in number 73, your time is up."

It’s probably best if I move on and find a different angle. A quick web search for 'flesh' and 'Ringmer' - for heaven's sake, don't just search for 'flesh' unless using an especially strong online filter - offers me a couple of news stories that are even darker than my sense of humour. There's a decidedly unfunny assault case from 2007 and a toe-eating maggot from 2013. Further investigation reveals the offer of a trainee sword-swallower who'll travel to the village from London. Fascinating but not immediately relevant. It’s one of those rare times when the internet is not my friend.

But that's forgetting the reason I live in Ringmer. In fact, February is the anniversary of a romantic event that resulted in me moving into the village. It has nothing to do with the mysterious Saint Valentine of Terni, who is celebrated on 14th February, but a much better-documented incident that took place a couple of days later. This, as history books don't yet tell, was when I first met my Ringmer-dwelling wife. (Not that she was my wife at the time, of course. The first time I met her in all her wifely goodness was when we married at Southover Grange, just over four years later.) “They shall be one flesh” says the Bible, perfectly on-theme for this month’s magazine. Yet despite Mrs B truly being the love of my life, I still struggle to express this coherently or without cracking a joke. Our first wedding anniversary was marked by a poem I wrote for the occasion, which featured a dreadful pun about my gift being entirely wrapping. Surprisingly well-received but I’ve subsequently wanted to do something better. Something without rhyme but with plenty of reason, you might say. Something that celebrates the unlikeliness of our meeting, the depth of our commitment and our love for each other. Something to tell everyone that my wife is the smartest and the most beautiful person I could ever hope to meet. I'm sure I'll have an idea soon. Right now? Nope. Not a sausage.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 125 February 2017

Looking for love at breakfast time

It’s Saturday morning and my wife is smiling at me in a way that melts my heart. I am indeed a lucky man. On other occasions she has a different look that’s capable of melting someone’s face, leaving her victim looking like the Gestapo agent in Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s not happened to me. Not yet, anyway.

This is one of those special moments I’d like to remember, although I don’t know how best to do it. Some people write diary entries, take photos or drink champagne when there’s something to celebrate. Others may carve their initials in a tree, get a tattoo or buy another charm for their bracelet. I’m looking for something that’s more personal. Something unique.

February is already a special month for me and Mrs B. We first met on February 16th, two days after St Valentine's Day. To be honest, I was rather pleased with myself. Not only did I have a guaranteed reminder every year, I could also buy a romantic anniversary gift at a dramatically discounted price. We’d feast on cut-price chocolates. If only we’d thought to get married on the same day.

This morning I’ve just presented Mrs B with a plate of toasted crumpets and a jar of Marmite. That, I’m sure, has helped prompt the smile. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. As I lean forward to put butter on my toast, Rupert the cat jumps into the space behind me. He's not allowed on my lap when we're eating but has decided that becoming a bony cushion is an acceptable compromise. When I sit down again, I perch carefully on the edge of my chair. Rupert starts purring loudly, although anyone hearing the noise without seeing the creature would imagine I was incubating a gargling pigeon. Is this affection? Is this happiness? I turn to address the cat. "What do you know about love, Rupert?" He looks at me curiously, as though I'm the one making a strange sound. My wife answers. "He doesn't think about love any more. Not after the operation." She then mimes scissors in a way I find slightly disconcerting.

I flinch, an unconscious response to Rupert’s emasculation. Mrs B leans across the table to give me a reassuring kiss. I flinch again, this time because she's forgotten the plate of crumpets in front of her. Afterwards, I notice that her dressing gown is now marked with a Marmite outline of her right breast, like a savoury Turin Shroud. I know it’s not permanent but maybe it’ll last until our wedding anniversary.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 101 February 2015.