Currently Catless. (But maybe not forever?)

With my second ‘cat’ story soon to be published, I’ve been asked by several people whether I’ve got a cat myself. It’s a fair question. Some might wonder how someone who doesn’t have their own cat can possibly know enough about them to write this kind of book – especially as my stories are told from the cat’s point of view!

Those of you who’ve read previous posts on here will know the answer. I’ve been privileged to share my life with three cats in the past, but no, sadly at the moment we are a catless household. Our last cat passed away four years ago at the ripe old age of 15. He was a chocolate Burmese called Charlie, a real little character and yes, I thought of him often when writing my new book Charlie, the Kitten who Saved a Life, but my fictional Charlie is a young tabby, despite sharing a few of our own Charlie’s cheeky characteristics!

Life is hard for a cat author!

We lost our previous two cats in traumatic circumstances. Misty, our lovely Devon Rex, died in a road accident outside our house. And Oscar, Charlie’s brother, a lilac Burmese, went missing along with Charlie after we moved house. Both boys were microchipped and we eventually got Charlie back after two weeks’ absence but never saw Oscar again. So the fact that Charlie survived into old age, eventually dying in his sleep at the cattery while we were on holiday in Australia, was of some comfort by comparison. But still, of course, the end of the human-pet relationship is always tough. We’ve had two dogs during our time, as well as the three cats, and it’s never easy to lose them, no matter what age or what the circumstances. As well as our own shock and grief at learning about Charlie’s demise when we came home from holiday, we felt bad for our family who coped with the news and kept it quiet from us while we were away, and bad for the cattery staff, especially the girl who’d found him.

Our grandson as a baby, with our Charlie cat

So, over the years I learned a lot about cats’ behaviour, and their interaction with us humans. In fact, I’m currently writing a series on my Facebook author page (https://www.facebook.com/SheilaNortonAuthor) which I’m calling Charlie’s A-Z of Humans, describing what Charlie the Kitten might think about us!  Luckily I also still have ‘access’ to a few cats – not least those belonging to two of my daughters and their families: lucky black cat Freddie, and black and white kittens Winnie and Wilbur.

Winnie and Wilbur

But for now, we’re remaining catless – and dogless too, for that matter. Why? Well, now we’re both retired from the day jobs, like a lot of retirees we’re doing a fair bit of travelling and holidaying before we become too aged and decrepit to do so. Most of us ‘oldies’ rarely, if ever, went any further than their nearest bit of British coast when we were younger. (I remember once, as a schoolgirl, getting a postcard from a friend who was in Cornwall with her family, and being absolutely amazed that anyone went so far away for their holidays). In a way, I wish we’d been able to get the ‘travel bug’ out of our systems at a younger and fitter age, but it wasn’t within our means so we’re trying to make up for lost time now. And we don’t want to start a new relationship with a furry companion, only to end up putting him or her into a cattery all the time. The fact that we weren’t there with Charlie at the end of his life has influenced this decision a little, but it’s not just that. When I do get another cat, I want to spend as much time as possible enjoying him.

So is that a ‘yes’ for a future four-legged newcomer to the Norton household? Let’s just say I find it very hard to close the local paper after looking at the pages from the Cats’ Protection League showing pictures of cats needing loving homes. And yes, I’m one of the many who drool over cute kitten pics on Facebook. So I’m certainly not ruling it out. I’d be quite happy to end up as a mad old cat lady!

Meanwhile I’m happy to have, at least, written another book narrated by a cat. Charlie, the Kitten Who Saved a Life, a sequel to Oliver, the Cat Who Saved Christmas, will be published by Ebury on 11 August 2016, in paperback and ebook editions. Here’s a link to the book on Amazon, where you can already pre-order:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Charlie-Kitten-Who-Saved-Life/dp/1785034197/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1468680238&sr=1-1&keywords=charlie+the+kitten+who+saved+a+life

Charlie hopes you will enjoy his story!

Is your man doing too much for you?!?

Anyone who knows me well will probably think the title of this post must be a joke. A man doing too much for me? Am I joking?! Well, bear with me ... because it's not a joke, and in fact I think it's quite important that some of us women start thinking seriously about this, sooner rather than later.

I've said some of us, because I'm sure there are plenty of women to whom none of this will apply. Those who aren't in any sort of marriage or partnership with a man, for a start. Possibly most younger women - (although read on anyway, because I'm willing to bet some of it will still apply to you). Those whose partner is less able, for whatever reason, to take care of things than the woman is. Those who are just very strong, independent women who do absolutely everything for themselves. And if you're nodding enthusiastically now, confident that this last category includes you - good for you. I thought it included me, too, but recently I've been taking a more honest look at what goes on in our house and yes, I have to say: he's started doing too much for me. And I don't think I like it.

What? I hear you cry. What is he, some kind of super-husband who vacuums the mattresses and irons the curtains? Does he cook our meals, do the weekly shop, put on the washing and clean the toilet? Well, no, obviously not. He doesn't do any of those things, and that's partly my own fault because I'm so used to doing them myself, and I carry on doing so, out of habit. So I'm lucky if he just slices the occasional mushroom, under my guidance, and makes me a cup of tea once in a while. But the point is this: if I weren't here, he'd be able to do all those things, no problem. Or not too much problem, anyway. How long would it take him to learn how to twiddle the right dials on the washing machine, or how to put a pie in the oven rather than try to grill it (as he once did when I was away)? I know he can iron. He can hoover. He'd soon learn how to clean the loo and find out where I keep the clean bed linen.

No-one can honestly say they enjoy housework, can they?

Yes, like a lot of women, especially of my generation, the household chores were always mostly my responsibility, and oh boy, over the years, especially when I was working, I admit I've done my share of moaning about that. But since we both retired - he from running his own business, I from my day job but not of course from my writing career, we've kind of shared them - as is only right, in the circumstances. Well, OK, to be more accurate, I still do most of them but he helps a bit more. So why the hell, you must be wondering, am I now saying I think he does too much for me?

I don't just mean that he does the gardening, and the DIY - although yes, he does. I used to get far more involved in both of those than I do now. I was pretty good at wallpapering, although I say so myself, and I regularly mowed the lawn in a long garden we used to have, with an ancient push-mower. Now, though - well, he's a lot stronger than me. And he has more time, too, these days, that's my excuse - I have book contracts, with deadlines, I can't be expected to wield lawnmowers and paintbrushes for God's sake! But if he weren't here, I'd have to take up the brush again, fair enough. Or pay someone to do all that stuff. Or move to a house with a smaller garden!

If someone gets satisfaction from doing a job, far be it from me to take it over from them!

No, it's not those things that concern me. It's that since we've been retired, there's been a gradual creeping takeover of the other things I used to do myself. Booking holidays. Arranging things like boiler service, household appliance repairs and services, looking on-line for new things we need for the home. Comparing deals with utility companies, insurance companies - even sorting the car insurance for my own car. These days I don't know how to deal with simple problems with our boiler or television because he sorts them out. When I realised recently that I don't even know where he - yes, he - gets the replacement filters for our Hoover, it finally occurred to me that this has gone too far. I'm losing control, and it worries me. If he suddenly disappeared, I'd have trouble sorting out those of our financial arrangements that he controls, because ... he's been quietly doing it on his own. Don't get me wrong - I'm grateful! I like not having to organise my own car insurance, for example, because let's face it, it's a boring job and I'd rather write the next chapter of my new novel. But at the same time, it leaves me feeling vaguely uneasy.

I've discussed this recently with some of my female friends who are of a similar age to me - and have been shocked to hear that some have relinquished even more than I have to their men's control. Some don't know where their husbands keep important papers. One has never put petrol in her own car. One or two don't even know how to access their joint bank account on line, don't pay their own credit card bills, don't even access email, believe it or not. All of these things seem quite incredible to me and fill me with horror, but am I, God forbid, headed in the same direction?

Household accounts - definitely not my favourite thing, but of course I'd do them if I had to ... wouldn't I?

And if you're a woman in her thirties or forties reading this, and thinking smugly that this kind of (how I hate the word) dependence, only happens to us, the older generation, and will never happen to you, think again. Because I really do admire the way you run your careers as well as your homes and your children's lives, and the way your men cook, clean, change nappies and come home early for school open evenings. But even so, I've heard some of you making those joking references to blue jobs and pink jobs, referring for instance to taking out the bins or getting the children's tea, as if we were still living in the pre-gender-equality years of my youth. Yes, I realise you're just joking about it - for now. But please don't be too confident that it'll always feel like a joke. Before you know it, he'll be buying the Hoover filters and you won't have a clue where to get them from!

OK, it's not the end of the world, is it, if someone loves you enough to insure your car for you. But I actually do think there's a serious side to all this. If any of us - young or old, male or female - can say we're not sure how we would manage certain aspects of our lives if our other half wasn't there to do it for us, then we're potentially setting ourselves up with a problem for the future. Or, perhaps worse, potentially setting up a worry for our children because one day we might not be able to cope on our own. And as a mum who hates her daughters being worried, that's an unacceptable scenario for me. So I think I need to get a grip on those Hoover filters - and a few other things too - before I finish that novel. Take a look at what your man's doing for you, ladies, and be honest with yourselves. In some ways, we all know it'll never be enough! But on the other hand - is it actually too much?

The DOCTOR Who Saved Christmas

Around this time of year I always think back over my various family Christmases during the years. It was especially moving to see a recent programme on TV about Christmas in past decades - starting with the very austere wartime years of the 1940s and moving on through the 1950s and 60s of my childhood and youth. I have to say, the homes featured in those two parts of the documentary were a lot more upmarket than I, or any of my friends, lived in during those decades! But otherwise they were reasonably accurate and it made me feel quite nostalgic about the 'old days' when we were content without just one or two presents, and when almost everyone I knew went to church at Christmas. Most people didn't overeat or drink to excess, even at Christmas. There really wasn't the money to spare. No TV, no phones, no internet: the family played board games. But that doesn't mean it was perfect, of course - life never is.

There are some lovely Christmases among my memories. The one in 1966, for instance, when I'd just met a new boyfriend at a Christmas dance, had a date with him on Christmas Eve and was wondering whether it was going to last. Four years later we were married and next year it will be 50 years since that meeting. Then there was the first Christmas, in 1975, with our first baby girl, 5 months old when we celebrated Christmas as a little family of our own at last. A year later she was a chatty little toddler and I was about to give birth to her sister, born on 29 December. And another two years on, our third daughter was born on Boxing Day. There were Christmases when my brother and his family were home from Australia, another one when we'd just moved to a bigger family home on 20 December, and recent lovely Christmases with our grandchildren - now six of them - all in the perfect age group for Christmas, still believing in Santa Claus, eyes still wide with the wonder and excitement of it all. And then, of course, there were the ones clouded by not-such-good memories.

Well, we all have them, don't we? Christmas arguments - like most families, we've had a few. And Christmases at sad times, particularly the one that came only a month or so after we lost my dad at the age of just 61. I felt guilty for even trying to enjoy myself, but Mum put on a brave face throughout, bless her. I missed her terribly the first year she wasn't with us either. There were Christmases when it snowed. One when the boiler broke down. One when the cooker died on me, halfway through cooking the turkey. One when I forgot to buy the vegetables. And several when somebody was ill. That would often be tonsillitis with one of the children when they were young, or chest infections, or the all-too-seasonal colds and tummy bugs. But the worst was six years ago when our middle daughter was rushed into hospital.

She'd had major abdominal surgery some years earlier, and that Christmas morning when her problems recurred, her baby boy, our first grandchild, was three months old and we were all looking forward to his first Christmas with us. The rest of the family was gathered at our house, and then came the phone call from my son-in-law. Our daughter was in terrible pain and being very sick. He'd phoned the hospital and needed to take her straight there. Could we possibly come over and collect the baby?

I was so frightened as we drove the 20 miles to their home, I couldn't even speak. It was awful to see my lovely girl in such a bad way. Our son-in-law carried her out to his car and sped off to the hospital, leaving us to take charge of baby Noah. I was pretty sure our daughter would need further surgery, and suddenly Christmas had completely lost its importance as I tried to face the rest of the family without collapsing in tears. We ate the dinner which other family members had finished preparing in our absence, unwrapped presents, played with the baby, constantly wondering what was happening at the hospital. Finally, our son-in-law called, relief evident in his voice. A wonderful doctor had apparently given her a massive anti-inflammatory injection, to be followed by oral anti-inflammatories, and had told them that this was the correct way to deal quickly with her condition rather than leaving it (as had happened that first time, at a different hospital) for days, to escalate to such a life-threatening stage that drastic surgery had been the only option. She was now exhausted but OK, and they were on their way!

Her recovery took time. She spent Christmas Day lying on our sofa, and had little more than soup. But thanks to that doctor's approach, surgery had been avoided and, thank God, has not been needed since. As I've already mentioned, we've had other hiccups at Christmases since, but as a mother I don't think anything could ever match that one for scariness. So having spent a large part of this year going on and on (as we authors do) about my book 'The Cat Who Saved Christmas,' I'd now like to dedicate this blog post to that unknown hospital doctor who, for our family on one special Christmas Day, was 'The Doctor Who Saved Christmas.'  Maybe we'll raise a glass or two to him this year! And may all your Christmases be happy and healthy ones.

The sum of my difficulties.

I recently read a very interesting feature in one of the national papers. It was about dyscalculia - a condition described as a specific learning difficulty for mathematics, or, more appropriately, arithmetic. 'Recognition at last,' I thought - because although everyone these days knows about dyslexia, very little is acknowledged about those of us who have similar problems with maths. And, as the author of the feature said, whereas dyslexia elicits sympathy and (usually, I hope, these days), understanding - if you mention being useless at maths it normally just seems to make people snigger.

The author of the feature was  a woman - a professional writer - who had difficulties with numbers herself, although she mentioned that she had managed to get a GCSE in maths at school, which I could never have done in a million years. I know this for a fact because at my (very academic) grammar school, I was deservedly placed in a small exclusive group for those considered such no-hopers in maths that we weren't even allowed to attempt 'O' level. Instead, we were all given a 'basic arithmetic' test which was supposed to give us a mediocre kind of qualification that at least proved we could weigh our cookery ingredients and make curtains. Although this kind of sexism was still rife in the 1960s, I have to say my school was generally not like this at all, encouraging us girls to aim for university and 'careers', (albeit there were fewer career choices available for us than there have been for girls in more recent decades, and certainly less pay than for boys!).  However, the maths teaching staff must have decided my little group of remedial maths girls deserved nothing better than curtain making and cooking from recipes - neither of which I've ever particularly enjoyed, to this day.

I tried my best with that test, honestly I did, but even those questions I knew how to work out took me so long, I got less than halfway through the paper in the time. My result was a miserable 29% and nobody was particularly surprised. I knew I wasn't stupid, because I'd always been very good at English, and reasonably good at foreign languages - I got A levels in English and French. I'd passed the 11-plus, so I must have got a fair proportion of the arithmetic questions right at that time, but I can still remember that it was at about this age I began to have panic attacks in the classroom when doing 'mental arithmetic', and particularly 'problems' (involving a bewildering combination of words and numbers concerning, for instance, how many men it might take to mow a lawn of a certain size, or how long it might take a train to get from A to B if it stopped at 15 stations).

So I can say with some degree of certainty that my maths ability is about that of a 10 to 11 year old. From that age on, it was all downhill, Long division is still a mystery to me, sums involving pounds shillings and pence used to bring me out in hot sweats, (thank God for decimalisation), and how anyone can add two numbers together without using 'carrying figures', I fail to understand.

In some ways I do manage better now I'm older. For one thing, I thank God I was forcibly made to learn my 'times tables'. I never have to work out what 12 times 12 is, for instance, because it's glued into my memory. And in the same way, over the years I've learned that, again for instance, half of 50 is 25, half of 100 is 50, and so on, so I don't have to wonder how to work these things out. So I'm not completely useless with everyday money situations, although larger amounts still remain difficult. I have to count their digits to work them out.

I've never been allowed to forget one occasion when my friends rather foolishly allowed me to take control of 'doing' the bill after a night out in a restaurant. We'd all had a few drinks and nobody wanted to do it, but I must have had the most to drink or I'd never have agreed. I couldn't make the amount right, no matter how many times I tried - I didn't have enough, and had to ask everyone to put in some more money, and then some more again. Nobody seemed to mind, and finally I seemed to have the bill and the tip covered. I felt quite proud of myself. It wasn't till the middle of the night when I woke up with a sudden shock, that I realised why I'd been short - I hadn't paid for my own meal!

Of course, in today's world we maths dunces are lucky - we have calculators, we have Excel spreadsheets, we don't have to do the hard stuff in our heads. Perhaps I do genuinely have dyscalculia and deserve more sympathy. Or perhaps it's simply that the 'Language' part of my brain is much more developed than the 'Numbers' part. Or it might be because of the flashbacks to my schooldays, the feeling of dread on days when we had double maths lessons, the humiliation of never knowing how to do the wretched calculations, the shaky, panicky feeling when it was my turn to have a question fired at me in class. Whatever the reason, I've never lost my horror of having to deal with sums. Just looking at a page of numbers gives me the creeps. Doing my tax return - even though in the logical part of my brain I know it isn't actually very difficult to do, on-line - is an ordeal every year.

So all I can say to the taxman is: if we self-employed people are going to be expected to do our returns four times a year in future, shouldn't there be some concession for people like me? I'd be spending half my life worrying and putting off looking at all those figures. How about, on medical grounds, 'prescribing' an accountant's services for all dyscalculics? Not too much to ask, is it ... but then again, how much is too much? I wouldn't know!

Public humiliation : Been there, done that!

Some of my writing friends and I, at a recent function, were talking about giving talks. More specifically, we were talking about the humiliation of giving talks when hardly anyone - or even no-one at all - turns up. It was a hilarious conversation, and afterwards I found myself thinking how nice it is that with fellow authors, we're able to laugh off these humiliations and not feel shamed or depressed about them. And then I thought: what if it happened the very first time you did an author event? Would you realise it's actually something that most of us experience, and accept it as just another disappointment along the road of disappointments that often make up much of a writing career - or would you be devastated and feel like giving up?

With this in mind, I decided to write this little warning as an 'open letter' to new writers or newly published authors who may be considering starting to give talks and author events. Not to put them off, but on the contrary to welcome them to our world: the world of the survivors of public humiliation!

A few years ago I was given a book as a present which opened my eyes to this phenomenon and at the same time, reassured me. It's called 'Mortification', edited by Robin Robertson, and the sub-title is: 'Writers' Stories of their Public Shame'. It's full of very funny anecdotes by writers about events where they faced empty auditoriums, indifferent organisers, bored audiences and badly advertised events. It was reassuring because it made me realise it happens to far better-known authors than me, and if they can laugh about it, so can I.

                          At a signing of my first published novel, 2003. I sold one or two books!

Don't get me wrong: I've had very successful author events - fortunately, far more of these than the other type! And I love giving talks. I hasten to add that I didn't at first. We writers tend to be better at expressing ourselves in the written word than the spoken word - that's fairly obvious - and like many of us, I found my first few public engagements terrifying. Fortunately the memories of these have dimmed, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't very good. Probably my voice shook, and I mumbled and stumbled and spoke a lot of rubbish. I think the audiences were predictably small, probably boosted by my family, and I'm sure it's a good thing these were library talks so I wasn't charging a fee. But I'd been firmly advised that it was A Good Thing for a new author to Give Talks, so I soldiered on, and I got better at it. 

As my career progressed I had more to talk about, more experience to call upon, and got to know what people liked to hear about. I realised one day that I was actually being paid to chat to people about what I love doing best - can't be bad - and I started to relax and enjoy it. We don't get out a lot, do we, glue to our computers as we tend to be - and it's nice to meet people who are interested in writing and in books and might even want a signed copy at the end of the meeting!

I don't do as many talks or events as some of my writing friends, but I have sometimes spoken to halls so full of people that some were standing at the back. Now, I don't kid myself that I'm that popular - those were meetings of very popular clubs, where the same number of people probably turned up to every meeting! And that's the key, if you don't want the humiliation of empty rows of chairs - offer yourself as guest speaker to clubs and organisations where you have a 'captive audience'. Then you'll only get an empty room if all the members are on holiday or if they all, to a man or woman, genuinely hate books, or talks by authors. Even then, you shouldn't take it personally. The speaker secretary shouldn't book something that their members aren't going to want!

On the other hand, giving a talk in a public venue such as a library, or doing a book signing in a bookshop, for instance, is asking for trouble if you're not very well known. In these circumstances, if you don't fancy humiliation I can only suggest renting your own crowd. Bribe a few friends and relatives to come along and behave enthusiastically, then there's just a chance their presence might attract a few more curious passers-by to hang around. But don't count on it. At a book signing a few years ago I behaved exactly like a stall-holder at Romford market (my native town) - bellowing out in my best barrow-boy tone: 'Come and meet your local author! Get your signed copies here!' One person wandered over, but only to ask where the toilet was. One of my trusty friends stood outside the shop, trying to encourage people in, without a lot of success, and I think I sold a total of three books - one to the friend, and the other two probably to staff of the shop. But I was pathetically grateful that I'd finally got a branch of the major bookseller to let me have a signing. I'd been asking for years. Oh no, I don't mind how long I humiliate myself for!

                                                          At 'that' bookshop signing.

But people won't be persuaded into things if they're not interested. We wouldn't, so why should they? It hurts, when you put yourself out there and try your best - but that's life. Worse things happen. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the ... bookshop! Or the library, as I did recently after waiting 20 minutes in front of the rows of empty chairs arranged there, more in hope than realistic confidence, by the librarian who had already admitted it didn't look like anybody would turn up. I'm past being mortified. It's just sometimes the way it is. It can be just as crushing if someone in the audience falls asleep during your talk - even if they're very elderly, in a warm room, and don't look in the best of health. You could choose to be offended, I suppose - but I prefer to think of it as another little anecdote to laugh about with my writing friends.

At a library Panel Event with fellow authors and good friends Maureen Lee, Fenella Miller

 and Jean Fullerton. Panel events are a good way to share the humiliation!

It might feel good to be able to show off about the big audiences - the applause, the requests to come back, the compliments and sales of books at the end - of course that's what we all want, and it's lovely when it happens. But it's the funny stories about the times you persuade the two or three people who turn up to move forward from the back row so that you can have an informal chat instead of a talk, or when half the elderly audience get up and leave before the end because their bus is due - they're the stories that will make people warm to you, to laugh with you (not at you) - and will allow other writers to welcome you into the charmed circle of the humiliated. Because we've all been there, learned to shrug it off - and lived to tell the tale. 

High Tea at the Cat Cafe!

'How about we celebrate your publication day with tea at one of London's cat cafes?' my lovely editor Emily suggested during the lead-up to the launch of  Oliver, the Cat Who Saved Christmas.  
I frowned in puzzlement as I read her email. Tea sounded good - tea is one of the things that always sounds good to me! But what on earth was all this about a cat cafe? As a cat lover, and having so recently finished working on one of the most enjoyable stories I'd ever written, that sounded good too, but I couldn't quite envisage what it entailed. So of course, I promptly Googled it - and up came this link: www.ladydinahs.com

Of course, as soon as I saw the adorable pictures on the website, that was it. I emailed Emily back to say it was a great idea, and very appropriate for my publication day celebration!
'Good. I'll invite Juliet too,' she responded. 'Lady Dinah's is actually the one I had in mind.'
Juliet is my agent, and also fortunately a cat lover, and was just as surprised and excited by the idea of the Cat Emporium as I was. High Tea at the Cat Cafe. (Why does that sound so much like the title of a cowboy film?!)

And so the date and time were booked, marked in red in my diary, and I got back to the important task of the pre-publicity promotion for Oliver. As all authors know, this is an essential but time-consuming part of the job, and one which can't be skipped or skimmed these days, when every book has so many competing titles whose authors and publishers are busy doing the same thing. But the thought of the approaching publication date and High Tea at the Cat Cafe was keeping me going, the circled date in my diary urging me onward like a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel.

And then, four days before the date, I couldn't move. If that sounds a little dramatic, believe me, the words don't come anywhere near doing justice to the state I was in that morning. My back, which had been 'niggling' with pain on and off for a few weeks, had become much worse the previous evening and I'd spent nearly all night awake, trying to get into a position that was less painful. By morning I was almost climbing the walls, groaning and sweating in agony. Anyone who's ever had disc problems in their back will now be wincing in sympathy. The inflammation from the ruptured disc was sending shock waves of white hot pain down my sciatic nerve, from buttock to toe. What made it worse was that I'd been in this situation five years previously, and the pain in my leg had lasted for nearly a year, despite all manner of analgesic options. I was terrified that this would happen again - and I realise now that the fear was making my muscles seize up, intensifying the whole thing. It was so awful, my husband called our GP and asked her to come out.

I have to say right here - I have a wonderful GP. She not only turned up, knelt by my bedside and commiserated very sympathetically with my plight, she also told me quite firmly what I needed to be told, and wouldn't listen to from anyone else: whether I liked it or not, I had to take strong drugs. I don't like it, because they usually upset my stomach badly. But there was no alternative. As well as strong anti-inflammatory painkillers, she also prescribed Diazepam to relax the muscles which had gone into spasm. I must have been almost delirious at this point, because looking back I can't believe I was even thinking about it, but before she left, I asked her in a pathetic pitiful voice: 

'But will I be able to go to the Cat Cafe?'!

How ridiculous. A woman in such pain she can't move from the bed, talking about a Cat Cafe! Most doctors would probably have dismissed it as the ramblings of a bedridden old fool. But my lovely GP put her head on one side, considering it carefully, counting the days till The Day, and nodded thoughtfully.
'If you take the drugs properly, I think you might be up and about by then.'
'Really?' It was more than I'd dared to hope for, and I couldn't quite believe it. But it gave me what I needed most at that point - a flicker of hope that this wasn't going to go on for a whole year again.

Two days later, the drugs were doing their work. I was up, moving around slowly and carefully, treating myself like a piece of delicate china. Should I call Emily and warn her that there was a possibility I might not make our date? No - that was negative thinking. I started planning my journey. My husband would drive me to the station. I'd allow myself loads of time to manoevre the steps, and make sure I got a seat on the train. I'd get a taxi at the other end rather than walking, and be careful to start heading back before the rush hour. By the day before publication, I'd made up my mind. I was going to make it. Cats, here I come!

Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium. If you didn't know it was there, and you passed it in the street, you'd be intrigued straight away, wouldn't you. It's on the main road in Shoreditch, East London, and don't even think about taking a chance on getting a table for High Tea if you haven't booked - it's so popular. As soon as you go into the reception area you know this is something special. All sorts of cat memorabilia is on sale for a start, and when you're shown through to the next room, you're asked to wash your hands and told a couple of house rules. 

You mustn't wake me!

The cats mustn't be picked up - they can of course be petted, but not if they're asleep or eating. To any cat lover, this is pretty much common sense anyway unless you want your hand bitten! 

Sssssh!

Lady Dinah's is a very responsibly run cat cafe where the cats are allowed to behave naturally, not encouraged to interact with humans in an unnatural way or against their wishes, so for instance, nobody is allowed to feed them titbits from the table. If they don't want to play with you, you just have to watch them doing their own thing.


And so we were shown through into the cafe area, which has two floors, both strewn with cat beds, cat toys, tunnels, scratching posts, multi-tiered platforms - and if you're lucky, an assortment of up to a dozen beautiful cats awake and wandering around the tables. Of course, several were sound asleep for the whole of our visit - that's the chance you have to take, given that cats spend such a great proportion of their lives sleeping! And all the cats at Lady Dinah's are so used to strange humans coming into their territory every day, they aren't the least bit bothered by us. But a couple of them were kind enough to show us some interest - and this one (below) was a particularly discriminating cat who knew a good book when he saw one being advertised!

Hmm. Must add this title to my cat-alogue!

This one didn't show so much interest in the book ...........

... in fact I think we can surmise that fiction isn't his thing!

And then there was the tea! Well, that was amazing. First a glass of sparkling elderflower drink, and some nibbles as an appetiser - I loved the hummus - and then a cake stand with all three layers full of gorgeous tempting muffins, scones, carrot cake, cupcakes, brownies - what a selection. My mouth was watering so much it was hard to choose. But we needn't have worried; when we were too full to force down another crumb, the staff brought us boxes so that we could share out the remaining cakes to take home. 

When I told our server what the occasion was (never being one to pass up a good PR opportunity!), she was very interested, and happy to take some of my promotional cards for Oliver to display at the cafe. It was a great opportunity for Emily, Juliet and I to have a chat about reactions to the book so far, and future plans. The time passed so quickly I was slightly alarmed to realise that if I needed to be back at Liverpool Street station before the trains started to fill up with rush hour commuters, I'd have to get a taxi quickly. It was such a shame to say goodbye to each other, and to the cats of course, in a bit of a rush - but we'd had a really good time and were three very happy cat loving book lovers.

Looking back, perhaps it was a risky thing to do so soon after such a severe problem with my back, but thank goodness, I didn't suffer any deterioration, and my progress since has been slow but steady. I won't be getting down on the floor to play with any cats (or grandchildren) any time soon, but I've been able to continue with my writing work and my promotional activities, including a radio broadcast, with a library event still to come this Saturday. So I'm feeling optimistic. And I know that however many more books I'm lucky enough to have published, I'll always look back on the publication day of  Oliver, the Cat who Saved Christmas with a smile on my face. Thank you again, Emily, and Ebury Publishing, for our High Tea at the Cat Cafe!

Why cats?

'Why cats?' someone asked me recently after I'd been describing my new book 'Oliver, the Cat Who Saved Christmas'. I could only presume he wasn't a cat lover. I mean, why would you not want to write a story about cats? Anyone who has shared their life with a cat or two, or more, will know what I mean when I say you can quite easily idle away an afternoon or evening just watching them. As Sigmund Freud said, 'Time spent with cats is never wasted.'! They're clever, funny, interesting and absorbing - all the things we authors want our books to be!

Some people think everyone is either a cat person or a dog person - but I've had both, and loved both. However I do appreciate the huge difference between owning a dog and being owned by a cat! A dog will love you slavishly; a cat will make you his slave. I know some dog lovers say that this independent, aloof reputation of cats puts them off. You know where you are with a dog - his devotion is unquestioning. Our Springer spaniel used to wag her tail and smile at us lovingly even when we were telling her off. 

But to dismiss cats as being standoffish Prima Donnas who make use of us for food and shelter, and then go about their separate lives without giving anything back, is to completely misunderstand them. Our three cats all had different personalities, but they all gave us lots of affection. Rather like children, they were sometimes rude, noisy or difficult, stayed out late, took us for granted and indulged in sulking sessions in their beds rather than play nicely with the family. But as with kids, all those things are forgiven when they jump on your lap for a cuddle and tell you they love you.

Tell you? I can hear the cat detractors laughing now. But if you haven't experienced the soft, gentle purring in your ear of a contented cat who nuzzles your face, licks your hands with his little rough tongue and blinks kisses at you, it's hard for me to explain and I'll probably never be able to convert you. Cats and humans make perfect companions. They don't expect our exclusive, undivided attention, to be 'the one and only', or for us to give everything up for them. That's an immature version of love, isn't it? We live our lives, they live theirs; but like humans who are happy living together because they give each other space, we're able to take huge pleasure and comfort from each other's company when we're together. The rattle of the cat-flap is like the key in the door when your partner/child/parent comes home. You put the kettle on (or dish up the Whiskas), settle down together and talk about your day. No-one is the boss; you choose to be together. That's grown-up love!

And of course - as we all know - cats can understand Human language. As Oliver says in my book, it's just such a shame that we humans have never learned to speak Cat!

Oliver, the Cat Who Saved Christmas is published by Ebury and on sale from 22 October in hardback and ebook editions. You can see it on Amazon or buy from bookshops. And if by any strange chance you're not a cat lover, I'm sure you know someone who is, who'd like a Christmas present from you!