Obiter Dicta

Monday, July 30^th.

I am currently reading up on all things Jamaican for Wednesday’s recording of ‘The Forum’, a BBC World Series programme. The loose theme of this edition is the notion of ‘Dependence/Independence’. I will be appearing with Dr. Adam Winstock, a specialist in drug dependency issues, and Olive Senior, a Jamaican poet and cultural activist. Hence the Jamaican cramming. It was originally intended that I should be in London for the recording, which is where my fellow guests will be, but I pointed out to the nice man at the BBC that London is a place I care not for, in the general way of things. London during an Olympic Games was a nightmare from which I might never wake up. Very graciously, they have allowed me to do my stint from the BBC’s Edinburgh studios, which has saved what is left of my sanity.

            (I did some research years ago on Jamaica, but Jamaica as it was in 1799, for my novel, ‘Redemption’.  This novel tells the story of John Newlands, a son of Bathgate (my home town) who went to the West Indies as a young man and set himself up there as a cotton trader. When he died, he left money in his will to establish a free school in the parish of Bathgate. The will was contested by family, but enough was left to set up Bathgate Academy. My starting point in ‘Redemption’ was that, other than that information, and a few other random scraps, nothing is known of Newlands’s life. He was a slave driver as well, of course, as were so many in those days. When the rain fell on Bathgate’s Procession Day, originally inaugurated to celebrate Newlands’s bequest, my fellow townsfolk used to call it “Darkies’ Tears”. Not PC – this was the 50’s – but it shows that they were under no illusion as to how Newlands built up his fortune. The novel takes what little information is known about him and provides a fictional account of his last days, as well as depicting Bathgate as it was in the 1950s of my childhood. The theme – fairly evidently - is man’s inhumanity to man. It has not been published yet but I am open to offers.)

            I’m looking forward to the recording.

            In other news, we had our daughter’s cat to babysit for the fortnight she and the family were on holiday. Which explains the earlier reference to my sanity. Now, I’m aware that many people love cats (we had six ourselves at one time) and that cat stories are extremely popular. This one wasn’t too popular with my wife and myself for a time.

            The cat herself is a beautiful animal: she has long fleecy ginger fur; is very affectionate and is called Amber. Our daughter said she tends to go out during the day and come back at night. We said we would pop over twice a day and let her out/take her in, feed her, etc. as well as keeping an eye on the house. All well and good and ticketyboo.

            For the first couple of days, it worked a treat. We drove over in the morning, Amber went out, we replenished her dishes and went back home. In the evening, we drove over, Amber was sitting at the door, we let her in and locked up. Couldn’t have been simpler.

            Till the evening she wasn’t there. I walked around the street, calling her, keeping a weather eye open etc. Nothing. Not a whisker. I drove home. My wife repeated the exercise three hours later. Zip. Bupkiss. Nada. At half past eleven, I came back and haunted the night streets for a while on the qui vive for a ginger moggy. Nothing.

            The next morning, she still hadn’t returned. Nor by lunchtime. So we came home and drafted a ‘Have you seen Amber’ plea for circulation in the neighbourhood. Then we did a leaflet drop through the letterboxes of the area, with my wife’s mobile number on it. She had two calls in the car on the way home. Apparently, Amber is prone to dropping in on the neighbours. Literally, from their back fences. Nor is she averse to accepting the invitation of an open patio door. Or a bowl of milk. She knows more of the neighbours than the family does. These callers had seen Amber at various points in the previous 24 hours but not more recently than the last night. And then a young woman called to say that she might have Amber in her place. The bloody moggy had followed her kids home. My wife collected the cat and she was deposited in the house.

            The following day, she got out in the morning but wan’t there when I went back. I did the obligatory wander round the streets, calling out ‘Amber’ in a plaintive voice, like a lovesick Restoration dandy, but it did no bloody good. Right, I thought, sod this for a game of monopoly. I got in the car and drove away. Amber was sitting on the pavement in front of the flats three streets down. The little bastard must have heard me, but chose to ignore me.

            I pulled up and she came running round my feet. I put her in the car and drove slowly back up the road. It was as well I drove slowly. She took off from the passenger seat. Ran along the dashboard, leapt from there on to the back passenger shelf, then attached herself to my head, with her tail dangling over my face. I let out a shrill AAARGH! and she rearranged herself as a boa round my neck. We got to the house and I prised her claws from my neck and took her in.

            She was under house arrest till the family came back. We had to take an hour out of our days, twice day, to clap her after we’d fed her, which was something of a bind. But far less of a bind than calling all cars and putting out an APB.

            Don’t talk to me about Dependence/Independence!