Every day when I walk to work, I pass an old Victorian house on Bute Street. Its dilapitated exterior is cheerily painted two shades of purple, and more often than not a large ginger cat is perched on the garden gate, underneath an arbor covered with vines. He is usually very aloof, this ginger-cat; I'm usually reproached for even daring to suggest I would pet him by his jumping off the gate and padding disdainfully towards the porch.

Today I think he must have mistaken me for someone else, or sense I was in need of a little love, because when I tentatively stretched out my hand to him, he rubbed his head eagerly against it and began to purr loudly. I could hardly believe my luck and I held my breath as he continued to purr and shut his eyes in delight. Quite suddenly, he jumped off the gate and onto my shoulders, wrapping himself comfortably around my neck and licking my ear (which I thought was rather forward). I tried to politely encourage him to jump back on the fence, and he did, but he got carried away again and jumped back on within seconds.

Finally I had to say goodbye and continue on to work. Our little tete-a-tete made me miss my own kitties so much, and the stress relief of talking nonsense to a kitty for at least a few minutes a day, but I was grateful we had finally made friends. I went to work with ginger hairs on my black coat, and a smile on my face.