Flossie’s Tales

There’s a cat that lives at the station, or so it seems. He’s a straggly old thing despite being a little too fluffy for his own good. His black and white markings are the worse for wear, as he spends most of his time on grubby platform edges.

Often the station cat sits at the platform, usually alone. Sometimes he’s curled up on one of the benches. I’ve even seen him sleeping soundly on the coat of a trader at the weekend market.

Sometimes he sits on the near side, but today he was on the far side platform. I wondered how he travelled from one platform to the other. I had visions of him climbing the stairs and passing through the covered bridge.

As if on cue, he saunters up to the platform edge, looks both ways before throwing himself onto the tracks below, crossing the line and leaping onto the far side.

As he lands on the platform he looks around him. Everyone seems engrossed in their watches, phones, books or newspapers. I seem to be the only person who notices the cat. I pretend not to have seen.

Despite his neglected looks, he still has his pride.

Don’t put a Creme Egg in your back pocket.

Clean the hob after cooking the roast beetroot risotto.

I was half asleep on the way home. Sitting at the front the Metro I tried to read an article for PMC. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t decide whether the author was being truthful, ironic or argumentative for effect. Maybe I just wasn’t giving it the attention it deserved, it had after all been a 14hour day in work.

Through my peripheral vision I could see the window at the front of the train. As I read the article I could also see the track winding left and right. The train of course, followed, but I couldn’t feel the swaying motion of the train. Whether through distraction or exhaustion I couldn’t say, but it appeared as a framed picture that was moving rather than us.

The illusion was quite strong, but would only work when trying to focus elsewhere, one glance up and I could feel the movement of the train once again.

Walking home from the Metro station it was already getting dark. As I meandered my way down a lane, dimly lit with the sodium glow of elderly streetlights I saw a shadow looking somewhat like a discarded bag.

It was a cat, sitting completely motionless staring into space. Across the street it appeared to be fixated on a non existent focus. It was looking the other way, but didn’t move at all. I scuffed my feet into the fallen leaves causing a predictable rustle. Still nothing. Not only did the cat not turn its head it didn’t even flicker an ear.

As I walked closer and closer I threw my bag from one shoulder to the other, allowing my keys to jangle. Not a flinch.

The dark cat continued to sit, statue-like. My ego didn’t feel comfortable with the fact that I could be so universally ignored by a creature famed for curiosity.

From across the street I coughed and sniffed, but this cat wasn’t interested in me or my sounds.

As I passed I whistled. As well as I could whistle, which more accurately resembles an echoey hiss. As the sound hit my teeth the right ear of the cat twitched the very slightest of movements.Had I not been watching so acutely the response would have been imperceptible, but I saw.

Not a glance, not a glower nor a glare, but at least this recalcitrant feline had acknowledged my existence.I had beaten him in the battle of wills, and all was well in the world.

One of my colleagues never drinks coffee, however her fledgeling relationship is improving her coffee manufacturing abilities:

If I make a coffee for my boyfriend before work, he only ever takes a sip or two and I end up throwing the rest away.

Why don’t you only make half a mug?

That won’t work. Half a mug will cool faster. He’ll finish it and wish he’d had a full mug.

Hmm. Which is better. Two sips and sated or half a mug and wanting more?

Phones and keyboards are different. The telephone will not respond to typed numbers on a keyboard. Press ‘1′.

I bet the neighbour at the doorstep wondered where I was going with binoculars around my neck at half past eight this evening. I was heading to the best spot away from light pollution, the beach.

I thought it was deserted as I walked the steps to the soft sand. The tide was a long way out. I saw a flashing light from the shoreline. At first I thought it was a couple walking the strandline with a torch, but it flashed again. And again. They were flashing at me like some sort of modern day smugglers. I suspect I wasn’t who they expected me to be.

Looking to the clock on my phone, I was still a minute early. I checked the glasses. I must have looked more than a little suspicious as I lined myself up towards the Grand Hotel.

I oriented myself using the stars and looked up. Brighter than Jupiter, it lit up and moved steadily across the dark sky. I lifted the bins. As I suspected, my heartbeat was affecting the vision through the glasses. I might have seen two spots of light, the solar panels in my imagination, in reality more likely the water in my eyes as I stared, unblinking.

I put down the binoculars. This was a sight for naked eyes, tonight. As I watched, I thought: There were people on that speck of light. Real people. If I’d done my homework, I could know their names, their nationalities. Was this just a tiny flicker of what I might have felt 40 years ago, gazing at the moon.

I watched, following the light as it passed across the sky. It started to dim. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought it would simply vanish as it passed into shadow, but it faded until I could see nothing anymore.

I continued to follow at the rate it had been travelling until I wasn’t sure if I was looking in anything like the right spot anymore. Then I stood, unmoving on the dark beach. Alone. Staring into space.

Until my phone rang.

I’m currently finding it difficult to write.

Ordinarily I’d have blogged about watching the Perseids from the beach.

Or the old lady in the retirement home who ate her dinner alone, with a birthday hat on.

Or jousting at the priory last weekend.

Only you were there. You were with me. I don’t need to share these moments with you over the screens and hard drives and networks. I can take your hand and point you to the things I notice.

Don’t get me wrong. This doesn’t make me sad. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been (bar, maybe the dizzy heights of childhood. The very first time, pre memory, when I had my first ice cream).

Only I’m a bit stuck. I want to keep writing, but I’ve lost my format. Not my content, not my medium, but my format.

Bear with me, while I work it out.

I think it needs a little more tweaking to give him a more pleasing, longer lasting flap.