“… furry faces peering incongruously from the jackets of hawkers.”

As a tribute to the graphic genius of Ronald Searle who died on New Year’s Eve aged ninety-one, I am republishing these drawings he made in Spitalfields in 1953 when he came here with his wife, Kaye Webb, to report upon the animal market in Club Row for their book, “Looking at London and People Worth Meeting.” A. R. J. Cruickshank wrote in the introduction, ”This book rediscovers for us some of the odd places and odd faces of London that most of us have forgotten, if we ever knew them. The warm-hearted humanity of Kaye Webb’s writing and the tender sympathy of Searle’s drawings are beautifully matched.”

Curious, considering our national reputation, that of all the street markets in London only one should sell dogs. This can be found any Sunday morning by taking a bus to Shoreditch High St and following your ears. a cacophony of whimpers, yaps, yelps and just plain barking will guide you to the spot where Bethnal Green Rd branches off to Sclater St.

There you may find them – the unclaimed pets of a hundred homes : new-born litters of puppies tumbling over each other in children’s cots ( the most popular form of window display) : “mixed bags” of less lively youngsters huddling docilely together in laundry baskets; lively-looking sheepdogs, greyhounds and bulldogs straining at the ends of leashes and furry little faces peering incongruously from the jackets of hawkers, who often look as if they’d be happier in the boxing ring.

The sales technique of their owners is almost as varied as the ware and almost always accompanied by much affectionate handling of the dogs. “It’s good for business and sometimes they mean it,” we were told by an impartial vendor of bird-seed who has been on the same pitch for twenty years. “Hi, mate, buy a dog to keep you warm!” said the man with the Chows to a pair of shivering Lascar seamen. “E’s worth double, lady, but I want ‘im to ‘ave a good ‘ome” or “Here’s a good dog, born between the sheets, got his pedigree in my pocket!” “Who’d care for a German sausage? – stretch him to make up the rations”, the salesman with the dachshund said, demonstrating too painfully for amusement.

R.S.P.C.A. interference is needed less often now. The days are gone when sores were covered with boot polish; when doubtful dogs were dyed with permanganate of potash; when, as tradition has it, you could enter the market at one end leading a dog, lose it half way, and buy it back at the other end. In fact the regular dog hawkers were never the ones to deal in stolen pets. “Stands to reason, this is the first place they’d come, and besides, look at the number of coppers there are about anyway.” But it is still possible to buy pedigree forms “at a shop down the road”, “just a matter of thinking up some good names and being able to write”.

The regular merchants, whose most frequent customers are the pet shops, are mostly old-timers ( some who have been coming for forty years and from as far away as Southend) and since a new law was passed insisting that all animal sellers should have licences, the ‘casuals’ are forbidden. But on the occasion of our visit the law had not yet been made and we passed quite a number of them. Most attractive was a red-cheeked lad with a spaniel puppy – “I call him Gyp; we’ve got his mother, but there’s no room for another, so my uncle said to come here.” Every  time he was asked: “How much do you want, son?” he stumbled over his answer and hugged the dog closer. And when the would-be buyer moved on, his eyes sparkled with relief.

That day the dog section of Club Row was not very busy; it was too cold. But the rest of the market waxed as usual. Unlike its near neighbour, Petticoat Lane, Club Row Market has a strong local flavour. The outsiders who make the long journey to its “specialised streets” are mostly purposeful men looking for that mysterious commodity known as Spare Parts.

In Club Row itself are to be found bicycles, tyres, an occasional motor bike or a superannuated taxi. The police are frequently seen about here looking for “unofficial goods”. Chance St sells furniture and “junk”, Sclater St is a nest of singing birds, rabbits, white mice, guinea pigs and their proper nourishment. In the Street of Wirelesses the air is heavy with crooning, and Cheshire St is clamorous with “Dutch auctions”, or demonstrating remarkable inventions like the World’s Smallest Darning Loom (“Stop your missus hating you … now you can say ‘you might darn this potato, dear, while I have shave’ … and she’ll do it before you’ve wiped the soap off!”).

We found one street devoted to firearms, chiefly historic, and another where secretive, urgent men offered us “a good watch or knife”, implying that it was “hot” and therefore going cheap. But we had learned that this was “duffing” and the watch was most probably exactly the same as those sold on the licenced stalls just up the street.

At ten to one the market reaches a crescendo. One o’clock is closing time and many of the stallholders won’t be back until next Sunday. This is the time when the regulars know where to find bargains, but it needs strong elbows. Our way out, along Wheler St, under the railway bridge and past the faded notice which says ‘Behold the Lamb of God Cometh”, brought us back to the dog market. It was surprisingly quiet. On the other side of the road we spotted a small figure hurrying off with the spaniel puppy. It looked as if Gyp was safe for another week anyway.

I hope you will not consider it vain if I reveal that Kaye Webb gave me this book and inscribed it under the title with my name and the text ” – also a person worth meeting!” It was my good fortune that Kaye, the legendary editor of Picture Post, Lilliput and Puffin Books, was the first person to recognise my work and encourage me in my writing. When I used to stay with her in her flat overlooking the canal in Little Venice, I remember she had some of Ronald Searle’s work framed on the wall in the spare room, and I spent many hours admiring both his Japanese prison camp drawings and his portraits of the bargees from the Paddington basin.

Kaye’s marriage to Ronald Searle ended in 1967 and she died in 1995. Today, I keep my copy of “Looking at London and People Worth Meeting” on the shelf as an inspiration to me now I am writing pen portraits myself, and I sometimes think of Kaye here in these streets over half a century ago and imagine Ronnie – as she referred to him – bringing out his sketchbook in Sclater St where I buy my fruit and vegetables each Sunday.

“…the rest of the market waxed as usual” – a bookseller in action on Brick Lane

Wren Day, also known as Wren’s Day, Hunt the Wren Day or the Hunting of the Wrens (in Irish, Lá an Dreoilín) is traditionally celebrated on 26th December, St Stephen’s Day, in parts of Ireland, the Isle of Man, Wales and Newfoundland. The tradition consists of “hunting” a fake wren, and putting it on top of a decorated pole. Known as “wrenboys,” crowds of mummers, musicians or strawboys celebrate the Wren (also pronounced as the Wran) by dressing up in masks, straw suits and colourful motley clothing and, accompanied by traditional céilí music bands, parade through the towns and villages in remembrance of a festival once observed by the druids. These crowds are sometimes called wrenboys.

In past times, an actual bird was hunted by Wrenboys on St. Stephen’s Day and the captured wren was tied to the Wrenboy leader’s staff pole, sometimes dead, sometimes alive – to be killed after the parade. The parade song, of which there are many variations, called for donations from the townspeople and often, the boys gave a feather from the bird to patrons for good luck. The money was used to host a dance held that night at which the pole, decorated with ribbons, wreaths and flowers, as well as the Wren, was the centrepiece. Over time, the live bird was replaced with a fake one that was hidden,rather than chased and the band of young boys was expanded to include girls, and adults were permitted to join in. Nowadays, the money that is collected from townspeople is usually donated to a local school or charity.

Some theorise that the Wren celebration has descended from Celtic mythology. The origin maybe a Samhain or Midwinter sacrifice, since in Celtic lore the Wren is a symbol of the past year  and the wren is known for singing even in mid-winter, and sometimes explicitly called “Winter Wren.” Celtic names of the Wren (draouennig, drean, dreathan, dryw etc.) also suggest an association with druidic ritual. The tradition may also have been influenced by Scandinavian settlers during the Viking invasions prior to the tenth century. Various associated legends exist, such as a Wren being responsible for treachery against Irish soldiers who fought the maurading Viking invaders by beating its wings upon their shields, and for betraying the Christian martyr Saint Stephen after whom the day is named. This mythological association with duplicity is a possible reason why the bird was hunted by Wrenboys on St. Stephen’s Day and may explain why a pagan sacrificial tradition was continued into Christian times. Despite the abandonment of the Wren killing practice, devoted Wrenboys ensure that the gaelic tradition of celebrating the Wren continues today.

In 1955, Liam Clancy recorded “The Wran Song,” which was sung in Ireland by Wrenboys. In 1972, Steeleye Span recorded “The King” on “Please to See the King,” which is along similar lines, and they made another version, “The Cutty Wren,” on their album “Time.” While “Hunting the Wren” is on John Kirkpatrick’s album “Wassail!” and The Chieftains made a collection of Wrenboy tunes on “Bells of Dublin.”

I lived in Ireland for five years though, sadly, I never saw nor heard anyone mention the Wrenboy tradition, but perhaps that was just because I was in Dublin. These fine fellas above are the Bogside Wranboys of Ballygramore and can play many a tune to set your feet a-tapping!

Illustration copyright © Paul Bommer

Max (Dalmatian) & Hugo Coster

“I saw his picture online – one inch by five inches – and that was it. I grew up in the States and had two Dalmatians as a kid, though Max is the first as my own responsibility.  I’ve had rats and cats but dogs take it to a whole new level.

It’s nice having him – I meet about twenty new people every day. Recently I was walking him in Hyde Park and met an improv actor who was doing a show called ‘Hounded.’ He said they’d love to have Max chase people dressed as foxes through Soho on a Friday night.  And we did!  They had bugles going off. The drunk revellers got in on the action too.  Max loved it!

With Max, people want to stop and talk.  It’s made London a more friendly place for me.”

Percy (Basset Hound), Ronnie (Terrier) & Evon Gregory

“I’d had Percy for about six months but he wasn’t good on his own, he used to wail all the time. Then I was having coffee with Leila outside her shop when a guy came up with a rucksack of puppies, saying he couldn’t cope with them.  He opened the bag and Ronnie was just there.  I looked at him and Leila said ‘Are you sure about this?’ but I’ve no regrets.

Percy and Ronnie get on very well. Percy is a proper alpha male, very protective, very stubborn, and Ronnie loves everybody, he’s social, he’s always happy.  They’re like ‘The Odd Couple.’

I was very ill for over a year, and if it hadn’t been for the dogs I wouldn’t have left the house at all.  So I realised afterwards how important they both were.”

Fragglepod (Bedlington Whippet–Lurcher cross) & Paolo Iadicicco

“He was called Fraggle, after the TV show, until he lost his leg – now he’s Fragglepod, like a tripod. My wife is a vet and he was brought into the practice, and although his leg was too badly broken to be fixed, this kind of breed is OK with three legs.

He’s only nine months old but he’s doing fine. And he forgets all about it – when he’s chasing squirrels, he’ll try to take a left turn and do a big skid instead.  But he’s still really fast, if it wasn’t for his missing leg he’d be catching those squirrels!”

Molly (Miniature Yorkshire Terrier) & Alan Styman

“My wife went out one day and ,when she came home, she put her hand in her pocket and she pulled Molly out and held her in her hand. She was so tiny, it was unbelievable.

I was born in Bethnal Green and I worked as an estates manager for Tower Hamlets for a long while, then I became a chauffeur.  I drove all sorts of people, executives from the big banks, Judi Dench and her husband, Placido Domingo – I drove him about, to and fro the opera house. And Tommy Steele.

I loved it.

My wife and I live in sheltered housing now and it can be very boring, stuck indoors.  Molly keeps me active, and if you make a fuss of her you make a friend for life.  The amount of people around here who see me and say ‘Hello Molly!’ – they all know her but I haven’t the faintest idea who they are.”

Blesk (Borzoi) & Svetlana Cunnington

“I’ve had dogs from the Whippet family all my life, and I had another Borzoi in Switzerland, where I am from. My husband and I went to Russia to fetch Blesk.  He was six months in quarantine and we went down to see him every Saturday and Sunday to try and cheer him up.

For me, these dogs represent speed, swiftness and beauty – and beauty will save the world.

He’s a continuation of me. We went on a holiday to Moscow, three days later we had a phone call to say ‘your dog is dying.’ Blesk wasn’t eating, only lying there.  It was sadness, he had given up.  He thought we had left him again, just as he was when he was in quarantine. Ever since then, we have never been on holiday without him.

He’s my angel.

I have a son, he’s twenty-one now, and in the Swiss army. You learn that you can’t have your children with you forever, they can’t always be your companion but your dog stays with you.”

Charlie (Border Collie-Labrador-Whippet-Greyhound-cross) & Leanne Winters

“I’ve had him since he was a pup. My Nan owned Charlie’s mother.  He’s got his Mum’s grey colour and the black bits belong to his Dad.

He’s a unique dog, all on his own. People either call him a fox, a wolf or a hyena!

I’ve lived here for thirty years and people have seen me with different dogs, I’ve had a five or six so far.  Charlie’s the best – more lovable, more playful.  He brings me happiness. He doesn’t listen to a blind word I say, but there we are.  He peed on my friend’s leg the other day, cos she’d been standing still for a long time and he thought she was a tree. He’s good like that!”

Nelson (English Bull Terrier) & Stuart Morris

“Eleven years old, he’s an old boy now. He’s called Nelson after “The Nelson’s Head” round the corner – yeah, and he also has a patch over one eye. I bought him as a guard dog for the pub when I owned it.  I didn’t keep the pub in the end, but I kept Nelson.

Their reputation is the problem with these dogs, though it’s not the dogs, it’s the people who bring them up – whether it’s six inches of Chihuahua or an Alsatian, if you bring them up angry, they’ll be angry.

You can’t get a better dog for a kid. My granddaughter’s two and, if Nelson’s having his dinner and she puts her hand into his mouth, he’ll stop eating.

He’s as good as gold.”

Malinka (West Highland Terrier) & Sara Dixon

“‘Mally,’ ‘Monkey,’ ‘Moo,’ ‘Malinka the Stinker!’

I like Westies. At school, one of my boyfriends had a West Highland Terrier and we used to put gel in its hair. We were fourteen and it was fun.

Malinka’s a dope, but a nice dope. She’s scared of prams and she barks at leaves passing the door. I was burgled, I could hear them downstairs yet the entire time Malinka was under the bed, fast asleep.

She always sleeps under my bed. And she sits on the bottom stair,  I’m often out all day – she’s worn that stair thin, waiting for me.”

Shadow (Rottweiler–Black Labrador cross) & Edmond Cuvelier

“Me, my Mum and sister moved to San Francisco while my Dad stayed in France and that’s when we got Shadow, ten years ago. Now I’m studying over here.  All my family’s in Europe and we were all moving here anyways, so I found a college nearby.

Coming over, the only problem for Shadow was the flight.  She was in the place where they keep all the suitcases, for twelve hours, and as soon as she got off the plane she started crying.

I do miss my friends over there, but I’m making new friends here. I got here two months before my course started and  Shadow was good company during that time – and she still is.”

Sam (Alsatian) & Yvonne Davis

“My brother lives in Essex and he kept seeing this dog with a drug addict – the dog was getting thinner and on its last legs.  So one day he gave the addict some money for the dog and took him away.

We called him Sam. I have him Monday to Thursdays and then my brother, he’s a taxi driver, picks Sam up in his cab and they go home to Essex together.

He’s a bit vocal at times, a bit nervous.  Yesterday, my son suddenly banged open a cupboard and Sam flew for his life.

Two different parents might not be ideal but compared to what his previous life was like, it’s much better.  Now he’s loved.”

Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie

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The Dogs of Spitalfields

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Tom Burch & Finn

On the corner of Wood St and Love Lane – beneath the shadow of the solitary tower of St Alban’s – is the last stable in the City of London where Spitalfields Life Contributing Photographer Patricia Niven and I went to meet Tom Burch, the farrier, on his monthly visit to change the horses’ shoes. Even as we entered the yard at the rear of the police station, the pungent aroma of burnt toenail clippings assailed us, indicating that Tom was already at his work.

Where once the horses would have been taken to the forge, now Tom works out of a specially-equipped van with a furnace and a portable anvil. Otherwise, dressed in his custom-made leather apron with a split down the middle allowing him to take the horse’s foot between his legs, he presents an image which has been familiar in the City of London for more than two millennia. The only working farrier in the City now, Tom is a liveryman of the Worshipful Company of Farriers, one of the original twelve livery companies in the City, dating back to 1356.

Tom has come to shoe the nine horses kept by the City of London Police for the past fifteen years. None of those that were here when he started remain yet the horses that Tom visits today recognise him intimately – standing patiently throughout the process, lifting their feet obligingly, even raising the next when the previous one is complete. “A horse is a beast of flight but these animals are trained to stand their ground,” he confirmed, as he gripped the hoof of Finn, a large white stallion, in preparation for removing the old shoe.

After a month, the hoof will have grown a quarter of an inch and over time the shoe will become uncomfortable if it is not changed – and here in the City the horses walk on concrete which wears away the metal shoes quickly. With his farrier’s knife, Tom trims the hoof once the old shoe is off and then removes the new shoe from the furnace with pincers, hammering it to fit. “I’ve got a picture in my head of the shape of the horse’s foot, so I am altering the shoe to it,” he explained, turning red-faced with droplets of perspiration forming on his brow as he gripped the glowing arc of steel upon the anvil, pounding it with his blacksmith’s hammer and sending sparks flying.

Taking the shoe in his pincers, Tom pressed it into place on the horse’s foot, inducing plumes of brown smoke as the hoof singed. “Finn, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of putting your weight on the other leg?” he asked and the creature obliged, unable to resist acquiescing to such a polite request. “It has to fit,” added Tom, speaking to me now, as he returned the shoe to the anvil to work it further, “the shoe must be level and the foot must be level.” Then he plunged the finished shoe into a bucket of cold water that suddenly bubbled into life as the iron cooled.

On the return trip, Tom nailed the shoe into place firmly in an action that caused me to wince, yet did not even occasion a blink from the horse. “The hoof is made of hair, it takes a year to grow and the area where the nails go is insensitive,” Tom assured me, returning again to the silent absorption that is his natural mode of working.“Some horses prefer to have their hooves shod clockwise, others I will do diagonally and if they’re nervous I will do them one at a time.” he revealed to me, thinking out loud, as he filed down the shoe now it was nailed in place. Farriers tend to be solitary characters, attending to the same horses regularly and becoming in tune with their charges. “You have to be quite content with your own company, because a lot of the time you are by yourself.” he confessed with a placid smile. And then, in a moment of repose at the completion of the morning’s work, Tom spoke a little of his personal history whilst standing at Finn’s side.

“When I was a kid, my dad had a farm near Canterbury. He bought me a pony and, until I was sixteen, I worked at the stable up the road where local people and showjumpers kept their horses. Then I did a four year apprenticeship as a farrier and followed it by working as a blacksmith for three years. In 1979, the Metropolitan Police were advertising for a farrier based at Bow, and I stayed thirty years until I retired in 2009. I gave up riding when I became a farrier, I just didn’t have the time, and when I joined the police I discovered other things to do, like golf.

It’s not the kind of job to do unless you enjoy it because it’s hard work. I enjoy working with animals, but thirty years doing big horses like this every day is enough. I’ve got arthritis in both knees, but I can’t just give up because I have been doing it so long. Now, it’s no longer a full-time job. I only have three days a month when I get up early, otherwise I can sleep in until half past six. After thirty years of getting up at half past four, it’s difficult to sleep in.

I’ve got two and a half more years until I’m sixty and then that’ll be it completely. You have to maintain a certain standard. I don’t want it to be said,“Tom’s shoes are dropping off right, left and centre.” A friend who did his apprenticeship with me, his son is doing his apprenticeship now and he will be qualified when I come to retire, so we have agreed he can take my van.”

It was time for Tom to pack up the van for another month and drive back to his home in Kent, five miles from where he grew up. Meanwhile, horses that had been on duty early that morning were being walked in circles around the yard as exercise before duty that evening and their hooves echoed in the quiet courtyard. “Would you like a horseshoe for luck?” Tom offered unexpectedly, eagerly pulling the nails out of one of Finn’s shoes worn down by the streets of London. He handed me the shoe with a generous smile, I wrapped it in my handkerchief, we shook hands and I carried it back to Spitalfields as my proud souvenir of meeting Tom Burch, the lone farrier in the City of London.

One shoe off, one shoe on.

The old shoe worn by city streets.

Shaping the new shoe, hot from the furnace.

Fitting the shoe.

The new shoe in place.

Planing off the excess.

A farrier’s knife.

A horseshoe for luck.

Photographs copyright © Patricia Niven

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At Wood St Stables

Whenever I walk along Old St, I always think of the brilliant eighteenth century poet Christopher Smart, who once lived here in the St Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics with only his cat Jeoffry for solace, on the spot where the Co-operative and Argos are today. So when artist Paul Bommer asked me to suggest a subject for an illustrated print, I had no hesitation in proposing Christopher Smart’s eulogy to his cat Jeoffry, the best description of the character of a cat that I know. And, to my amazement and delight, Paul has illustrated all eighty-nine lines, each one with an apposite feline image.

In an age when only aristocrats with private incomes were able to be poets, Christopher Smart was a superlative talent who struggled to make his path through the world, and his emotional behaviour became increasingly volatile as result. With small means, he fell into debt whilst a student at Cambridge and even though his literary talent was acknowledged with awards and scholarships, his delight in high jinks and theatrical performances did not find favour with the University. Once he married Anna Maria Canaan, Smart was unable to remain at Cambridge and came to London, seeking to make ends meet in the precarious realm of Grub St. His prolific literary career turned to pamphleteering and satire, publishing hundreds of works in a desperate attempt to keep his wife and two little daughters, Marianne and Elizabeth Ann.

Eventually, he signed a contract to write a weekly magazine, The Universal Visitor, and the strain of producing this caused Smart to have a fit, sometimes ascribed as the origin of his madness. Yet there are divergent opinions as to whether he was mad at all, or whether his consignment was in some way political on the part of John Newbery, the man who was both Smart’s publisher and father-in-law. However, Smart made a religious conversion at this time, and there is an account of him approaching strangers in St James’ Park and inviting them to pray with him.

In Smart’s day, Old St was the edge of the built up city with market gardens and smallholdings beyond. The maps of St Luke’s Hospital show gardens behind and it was possible that like John Clare in the Northamptonshire Lunatic Asylum, Smart was simply left alone to tend the garden and get on with his writing. Consigned at first on 6th May 1757 as a “curable” patient, Smart was designated “incurable” whilst there and subsequently transferred to Mr Potter’s asylum in Bethnal Green as a cheaper option. Meanwhile his wife Anna Maria took their two daughters to Ireland and he never saw them again. In 1763, Smart was released through intervention of friends and lived eight another years, imprisoned for debt in King’s Bench Walk Prison in April 1770, he died there in May 1771.

“For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry” was never printed in Smart’s day, it was first published in 1939 after being discovered in manuscript amongst Smart’s papers, and subsequently W.H. Auden gave a copy to Benjamin Britten who wrote a famous setting as part of a choral work entitled “Rejoice in the Lamb” in 1942.

The irony is that the “madness” of Christopher Smart, which was his unravelling as a writer in his own time, signified the creation of him as a poet who spoke beyond his age. Smart is sometimes idenitified as one of the Augustan poets, notable for their formality of style and content, but the idiosyncratic language, fresh observation and fluid form of “For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry” break through the poetic convention of his period and allow the poem to speak across the centuries.

It is the tender observation present in these lines that touches me most, speaking of the fascination of a cat as a source of joy for one with nothing else in the world. In fact, Smart was often known as Kit or Kitty and I wonder if he saw an image of himself in Jeoffry and it liberated him from the tyranny of his circumstance. Simply by following his nature, Jeoffry becomes holy in Christopher Smart’s eyes, exemplifying the the wonder of all creation.

It was a triumphant observation for a man who was losing his life, yet it is all the more remarkable that it is solely through this playful masterpiece he is remembered today. He did not know that, at the moment of disintegration, his words were gaining immortality thanks to the presence of his cat Jeoffry. And this is why, whenever I walk along Old St with my face turned to the wind, I cannot help thinking of poor Christopher Smart.

A little over ten years ago, I woke one morning and decided to get a cat. It was just a few weeks after my father died and I had been lying awake trying to think of ways to console my mother. The funeral was over but we were still living without any sign of a new equilibrium. I decided a cat was the answer, so I set out to find one and take it with me on the train to Devon that night, as a gift for her. Yet I hit a blank at once, when I rang a pet shop and discovered that cats cannot be bought. I spoke to the RSPCA and cat charities, and they could not help me either. They told me they required an inspection of the prospective owner’s house before they could even consider offering me a cat.

As a child, I owned a beloved grey tabby that I acquired when I began primary school and which died when I left home to go to college. The creature’s existence spanned  an era in the life of our family and, at the time, my mother said that she would never replace it with another because its death caused her too much sadness. Yet I always wondered if this was, in fact, her reponse to my own departure, as her only child.

Now my father was dead, she was alone in a large house with a long garden ending in an orchard. It was an ideal home for a cat, and she had experience with cats, and I knew absolutely that at this moment of bereavement, she needed a cat to bring fresh life into her world. I called her and discussed it, hypothetically.  She told me she wanted a female.

I rang veterinary surgeries asking if they knew of anyone giving kittens away, without any luck. Working systematically, I rang every pet shop in the London directory, asking if they knew anyone wanting to dispose of kittens. Eventually, a pet shop offered to help me – as long as I could be discreet, they said. They had rescued a litter of kittens just a few weeks old, prematurely separated from their mother and abandoned on the street, and they needed to find homes for them urgently. Naturally, they could not sell me one because that would be illegal, but maybe – they said – I could give them something to cover the costs of taking care of the others?

So I went to the pet shop in question, in a quiet street around the back of Mile End tube station. (It does not exist anymore.) By now, it was mid-afternoon and the light was fading. I was planning to go to Paddington directly afterward and catch the train to Exeter. As I approached the shop, my heart was beating fast and I recognised my own emotionalism, channelling my sense of loss into this strange pursuit. I entered the shop and there on the right was a cage of kittens, all tangled up playing together. Instantly, one left the litter and walked over to the grille, studying me. This was the moment. This was the cat. A mutual decision had been made.

I asked the owner if I could have the black one that was now clawing at the mesh to hold my attention. The shopkeeper assured me the cat was female and, after a short negotiation, I gave the owner forty pounds. Becoming distressed when it was time for me to leave, “You will take care of it won’t you?” he implored me, tears dripping from his eyes. Startled by his outburst, I walked away quickly and got onto the tube just as the rush hour began. The tiny creature in the box screamed insistently, drawing the attention of the entire carriage. It screamed all the way to Devon and that night I lay in bed clutching the animal to my chest, as the only way I could find to lull it enough to sleep. My mother christened it “Rosemary” and the cat grew calm under her influence, as she sat by the fireside reading novels through the long Winter months.

Next Summer, I moved back to live with my mother in the house where I grew up – when it became clear she could no longer live alone – and I discovered the new cat had fallen into all the same paths and patterns of behaviour as my childhood tabby. But when we sent the cat to the vet for neutering, there was a surprise – they rang to inform us it was a tom cat, not a female as we had believed. The name “Rosemary” was abandoned, instead we called him “Mr Pussy” in recognition of this early gender confusion.

My mother died within five years and I had to keep him away from her room eventually, because the presence of a cat became too threatening to her in her paralysis. Mr Pussy skulked around in disappointment and revealed an independent spirit, running wild, chasing moorhens through the water meadows of the River Exe. But then one day, I picked Mr Pussy up and sat with him on my lap in the cabin of a removal truck as we made the return journey to London.

Until this experience, I had always been critical of those who were overly affectionate to pets, but these events taught me how an animal can become a receptacle of emotional memory. Mr Pussy’s age will always be the amount of time that has passed time since my father died and – nearly five years after my mother’s death – Mr Pussy still carries her placid nature. Today, Mr Pussy has returned to the East End after his youthful sojourn in the West of England. Now, Mr Pussy longer goes roving, instead he lies on the bed at my feet while I write late into the night. And Mr Pussy is there, sleeping close by as I compose these words.

Mr Pussy does not measure his life in minutes, hours, weeks and years. Mr Pussy does not count time as humans do. Mr Pussy does not think of mortality. It is of no consequence to Mr Pussy that he is ten years old. Mr Pussy requires no Metaphysics because Mr Pussy exists in his own feline eternity.

Mr Pussy in his first year, whilst still known as “Rosemary.”

My drawing of my childhood cat that died when I left home.

You may also like to read

Mr Pussy in Winter

The Caprice of Mr Pussy

Mr Pussy in Spitalfields

Mr Pussy takes the sun

Mr Pussy, natural born killer

Mr Pussy takes a nap

Mr Pussy’s viewing habits

The life of Mr Pussy

Mr Pussy thinks he is a dog

Mr Pussy in Summer

Those of you that luxuriate in the warmth of Summer, spare a thought for Mr Pussy who has a fur coat surgically attached and spends his languorous days stretched out upon the floor in a heat-induced stupor. As the sun reaches its zenith, his activity declines and he seeks the deep shadow, the cooling breeze and the bare wooden floor to stretch out and fall into a deep trance that can transport him far away to the loss of his physical being. Mr Pussy’s refined nature is such that even these testing conditions provide an opportunity for him to show grace, transcending dreamy resignation to explore an area of meditation of which he is the supreme proponent.

In the early morning and late afternoon, you will see him on the first floor window sill here in Spitalfields, taking advantage of the draught of air through the house. With his aristocratic attitude, Mr Pussy seeks amusement in watching the passersby from his high vantage point on the street frontage and enjoys lapping water from his dish on the kitchen window sill at the back of the house, where in the evenings he also likes to look down upon the foxes gambolling in the yard.

Whereas in Winter it is Mr Pussy’s custom to curl up in a ball to exclude drafts, in these balmy days he prefers to stretch out to maximize the air flow around his body. There is familiar sequence to his actions, as particular as stages in yoga. Finding a sympathetic location with the advantage of cross currents and shade from direct light, at first Mr Pussy will sit to consider the suitability of the circumstance before rolling onto his side and releasing the muscles in his limbs, revealing that he is irrevocably set upon the path of total relaxation.

Delighting in the sensuous moment, Mr Pussy stretches out to his maximum length of over three feet long, curling his spine and splaying his legs at angles, creating an impression of the frozen moment of a leap, just like those wooden horses on fairground rides. Extending every muscle and toe, his glinting claws unsheath and his eyes widen gleaming gold, until the stretch reaches it full extent and subsides in the manner of a wave upon the ocean, as Mr Pussy slackens his limbs to lie peacefully with heavy lids descending.

In this position that resembles a carcass on the floor, Mr Pussy can undertake his journey into dreams, apparent by his twitching eyelids and limbs as he runs through the dark forest of his feline unconscious where prey are to be found in abundance. Vulnerable as an infant, sometimes Mr Pussy cries to himself in his dream, an internal murmur of indeterminate emotion, evoking a mysterious fantasy that I can never be party to. It is somewhere beyond thought or language. I can only wonder if his arcadia is like that in Paolo Uccello’s “Hunt in the Forest” or whether Mr Pussy’s dreamscape resembles the watermeadows of the River Exe, the location of his youthful safaris.

There is another stage, beyond dreams, signalled when Mr Pussy rolls onto his back with his front paws distended like a child in the womb, almost in prayer. His back legs splayed to either side, his head tilts back, his jaw loosens and his mouth opens a little, just sufficient to release his shallow breath – and Mr Pussy is gone. Silent and inanimate, he looks like a baby and yet very old at the same time. The heat relaxes Mr Pussy’s connection to the world and he falls, he lets himself go far away on a spiritual odyssey. It is somewhere deep and somewhere cool, he is out of his body, released from the fur coat at last.

Startled upon awakening from his trance, like a deep-sea diver ascending too quickly, Mr Pussy squints at me as he recovers recognition, giving his brains a good shake, now the heat of the day has subsided. Lolloping down the stairs, still loose-limbed, he strolls out of the house into the garden and takes a dust bath under a tree, spending the next hour washing it out and thereby cleansing the sticky perspiration from his fur.

Regrettably the climatic conditions that subdue Mr Pussy by day, also enliven him by night. At first light, when the dawn chorus commences, he stands on the floor at my bedside, scratches a little and calls to me. I waken to discover two golden eyes filling my field of vision. I roll over at my peril, because this will provoke Mr Pussy to walk to the end of the bed and scratch my toes sticking out under the sheet, causing me to wake again with a cry of pain. Having no choice but to rise, accepting his forceful invitation to appreciate the manifold joys of early morning in Summer in Spitalfields, it is not an entirely unwelcome obligation.

You can read more about Mr Pussy here:

Mr Pussy in Winter

The Caprice of Mr Pussy

Mr Pussy in Spitalfields

Mr Pussy takes the sun

Mr Pussy, natural born killer

Mr Pussy takes a nap

Mr Pussy’s viewing habits

The life of Mr Pussy

Mr Pussy thinks he is a dog

At this time of year, as the shadows get longer, the foxes of the East End grow bolder, reclaiming their territory. Those that have acquired a taste for curry come streaming down Brick Lane in the early hours to pillage the bins, and throughout Spitalfields you may even see foxes during daylight hours skulking in the side streets, as familiar with humans as we have become with them. Consequently, I did not blink when I caught a glance of the first of Spitalfields Life Contributing Photographer Martin Usborne’s fascinating fox photographs. My immediate assumption was to admire his skill in capturing a rare moment – until I saw the other pictures and realised that a sly ruse was involved.

Now that digital manipulation of photography has become commonplace, there is an elegant poetry in the plain contrivance of taking a stuffed fox and placing it in the street, because a natural correlation exists between the still life of taxidermy and the frozen moment of a photograph. So familiar are we with photography as a record of an event that we naturally imagine the movement before and after the frame, an impulse that still exists even after we know the fox is immobile.

There is also the delight of complicity here, in observing how different people gamely participated in Martin’s project, when he spent three days wandering around with a dead fox that he rented from “Get Stuffed” taxidermy hire in Islington. (Martin was assured that the fox died of natural causes and was given to the taxidermist by the RSPCA.) The comedy of the undertaking is irresistible, even if it is underscored by the poignancy of this displaced creature returning to its urban habitat after death.

Athough foxes are common in the city, the surrealism of their presence never fails to startle, and these cunning photographs play upon this familiarity, pushing the limit of credibility. Since foxes appear to be as at home in the East End as we humans are, it would not actually be out of character for them to do any of the things shown here. It makes perfect sense to see a fox get cash from a machine and then hit the fried chicken shop. Equally, when I saw the picture of the fox with the girls in the cocktail bar, I could not help wondering if it was a hen night.

In reality, there is a large family of foxes that live in a secret enclave in the Old Truman Brewery, Brick Lane, which makes them perfectly placed to take advantage of the night life on their doorstep. Here in Spitalfields, I have become quite used to seeing foxes gambolling in my back yard. Although guests get excited to see the foxes emerging from the undergrowth seeking chicken bones whenever I serve dinner in the garden, this has become commonplace to me now. Sometimes in the Spring, fox cubs waken me with their cries while playing outside my bedroom window and if I go out at night to bring in washing from the line they prowl around me in the dark. Similarly, the neighbourhood cats appear to have entered into an understanding with the foxes, and I even saw Mr Pussy rubbing noses with a fox this Summer. And I shall never forget returning from the premiere of “Fantastic Mr Fox” to confront a fox on the street in Spitalfields at midnight and half-expecting him to ask, “How was it then?”

So you will understand why Martin Usborne’s clever fox photographs stuck a chord, they are only one step removed from actuality – and their subtle irony renders them as playful and engaging satires upon the absurdity of our curious inner-city existence.

Photographs copyright © Martin Usborne

You may also enjoy Martin’s pictures of Joseph Markovitch of Hoxton.

Coco (Papillon) & Keith Chilvers

“Coco’s my best friend. She’s very bright and a good watch dog.

Around here there’s always a lot of noise. Hammering and drilling, she’ll sleep through – but one knock on my door and she’s off!

I was born in London, although I have travelled around as a landscape gardener. At that time, in the late sixties, it was all very hippy and back to the earth. While some people have got worn down, I’ve kept my values, of wanting to be close to nature. I’m learning wood carving now and I would like a garden – I’ve crammed as much in here as I can.

The last walk of the day sometimes ends up in the pub, The Perseverance or Nelson’s Head. Coco likes the foam from my Guinness, she’ll lick it off my finger.  She’s a damn good beggar in the pub!”

Marvin (Staffordshire Bull Terrier) & Karolina Kolodziej

“Marvin is all about sexual healing. Marvin Gaye had such a positive energy and so does our Marvin. He makes me so happy. He loves everybody, always licking them and, well, he doesn’t hump anymore – but he used to!

My partner and I both work in theatre, and Marvin’s a regular in the West End.  He’s often waiting at the stage door for us and, if he’s invited, he likes visiting the dressing rooms.

Some of the Muslim children on my estate are taught to think that dogs are dirty. They are scared and panicky, they think Marvin will eat them. They come, very frightened but excited, to see him sometimes.  I say, “If you would like to touch him you can.” They pat his back and then run away.  They ask hundreds of questions about him and I answer them all.

I think, on my floor, the children –  just the children I suppose – are changing their minds about Marvin.”

Gizmo, Tricksy (Chihuahuas) & Des Johnson

“I’ve had a lot of big dogs over the years but now little dogs have come into my life.

They are really my daughter’s but they prefer to be with me. She puts them in her handbag, whereas I treat them like dogs.

I’m an architect, and they like to sit up in my van and look out at all the other dogs. They may have pea brains but they’re very intelligent. And they can look after themselves – they’ll go for anything that moves. They’ve got small-man-syndrome.

My wife liked orchids and Chihuahuas. She died when my daughter was aged three. My daughter never knew her and yet now she loves them too.”

Archie (Golden Retriever) &  Andy Rider, Rector of Spitalfields

“Archie’s my second Golden Retriever. My wife and I had to give away our first dog when we moved to a flat in the West End years ago. But when I became Rector here at Christ Church, my son stood in the garden of the Rectory and said “Dad, I think this is dog country!”

He’s gentle and friendly, although he does eat everything and leave hair everywhere. If you’re wearing a black jumper, you don’t want to start stroking Archie.

He’s very popular with the congregation and sometimes comes to prayers with me in the morning.

But it’s when I take Archie to the Lake District every year that he’s at his happiest.”

Edwin (Lakeland Terrier) & Grace Dant

“I play a game with Edwin, when Daddy has a lie-in – I open the door and say “Edwin! Look!” and he runs up the stairs and pounces on him.

I walk Edwin around the bandstand in Arnold Circus and sometimes the fox will walk alongside him in the morning.  They don’t seem to mind each other.

And we go past AZ Grocers where Edwin’s enemy Lily the Cat lives. She once scratched him in the face. When we go by Edwin stretches at the lead, he really wants to bite her.

He was tied up outside my school one day and could see me in my classroom. He started howling – “owwwwooo!” – outside.  I had to pardon myself from the class and give him some biscuits I had in my satchel.

I remember when I first met Edwin, Daddy let him go and he ran straight towards me. From Edwin’s face I knew he was thinking “She looks fun!”

Harvey, Chai (Staffordshire Bull Terriers), Missy (Pekingese) & Mandy King

“I do three walks a day. This is number two.

I’ve lived in London Fields all my life and I’ve been walking dogs in the Fields since I was a child. Everyone knows me around here, probably as the Mad Dog Lady – well, I say “hello” to everyone and to all the dogs too.  And I’m not quiet – if I see abuse being done to another dog I won’t keep my mouth shut.

All my dogs are rescued dogs. At one time I had five dogs. Now it’s just these three and my cat who’s called “Mr Samuel Beckett.”  They all get along fine.

I love dogs, they’re great companions. They’re not stupid like people.

I had to retire from work for medical reasons and my world has become very small – but these dogs are what keep me going.”

Banjo (Cocker Spaniel) & Vanessa Caswill

“He just loves this hoop.

And puddles too.  He’s a real water dog.  When I first saw Banjo’s profile online, I read about how he loved to lie on his back in a bowl of water in the sunshine. We borrowed a neighbour’s car, drove to Canterbury, and brought him home that day.

I’m due in five weeks.  Banjo’ll put his paw on my belly, because I think he knows something is different. Things may change.

To get him used to the idea, I’ve started to have friends with babies coming round. They move, they make weird noises, they’re on his eye level – I think he finds them freaky.

It’s because of Banjo that we decided to have a kid. We loved him so much, he turned us from being a couple into a family. He gave us the confidence to have a child.”

Chase (Shih Tzu-Bichon cross) & Eddie Philpot

“He’s a good companion, he makes me go out.

I was born in Bethnal Green, I know these streets well. I ran up and down ladders all my life, cleaning windows. My father did the same job.

Oh, it’s changed. I walk round the same streets with Chase, where I used to clean windows, and sometimes I don’t know where I am – what with the security gates and all that.

My first two dogs were laid back but Chase is a comedian, full of energy. He is very protective of my daughter Kim – she carried him around when he was young.  And he’s naughty when he wants to be.

He’s a devil, but a loving little devil.”

Pan (Whippet-Bedlington cross), Peggy (Scottish Deerhound) & Jess Collins

“Peggy fell in the canal today.

She went out of her depth, her head went under and I had to help by pulling her out. Some passersby saw us struggling but Pan just stood and watched while we both got soaked.

We had Pan first, he’d been a working dog, a ratter. When we got Peggy, for a while Pan absolutely hated her and he wouldn’t look at me for weeks.

My partner Oliver and I run The Vintage Emporium, and we love dogs in the shop. They sit on the couch and get lots of attention. I’m lucky that I get to have Pan and Peggy with me all the time.

On my days off we all go to Hampstead Heath, which is such a beautiful place for dogs – and human beings too!”

Martha, Missy (Miniature Dachshunds), & Steven Dray

“Missy is named after Missy Elliot.  My partner, Steven, and I are both big fans. She’s only three and a half months old but she’s getting longer by the day.

I had an Alsatian when I was a teenager growing up on Columbia Rd. My mother still lives in the Guinness Trust Buildings there. Now I’m writing a book called “Shoreditch Unbound” which has been an important thing for me to do.

Dachshunds were originally bred to go down badger sets – though I can’t imagine these little madams going down a badger hole, they’re too precious. They’re perfect city dogs though and they’re super-affectionate.

Steven, me and both the dogs all sleep together – we’re going to have to get a bigger bed!”

Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie

You may also like to read the original Dogs of Spitalfields feature.

Just occasionally, I hear distant horses’ hooves in the street outside when I am sitting writing at my desk in Spitalfields. It always causes me to stop and consider this evocative, once familiar sound, that echoes down through the centuries. When horses were the primary mode of transport, there would have been hundreds of stables in the City, but today there is only one. So yesterday, I decided to follow the sound of the hooves back to their source in Wood St and pay a visit to the last stable, the home of the City of London Mounted Police – and Spitalfields Life contributing photographer Patricia Niven came along with me.

Passing among the shining glass towers of the City and then entering Wood St Police Station, we were ushered behind the desk, past a sign that said “Level of threat: normal,” down a passageway, through a courtyard and into the stables where the magnificent beasts are kept. Leather harnesses hung from the walls, straw was scattered upon the floor and the acrid smell of the farmyard prevailed here in this quiet enclave, a world apart from the corporate financial culture that surrounds it.

These are the last working horses in the City, out on the street in pairs for four hours at a stretch as they undertake patrols three times a day. Exchanged fortnightly, the troupe of ten is divided equally between here and Bushey Park where they get to run free and where training takes place. Mounted police officers double up as stable hands, cleaning kit and mucking out, grooming and feeding their charges. And, consequently, the stable is a scene of constant activity from seven each morning, when they arrive to wake the horses before setting out on the first patrol at eight thirty.

“I never envisaged, when I joined the police, I’d end up riding a horse,” admitted Sergeant Nick Bailey, greeting us eagerly, “I joined the police to ride motorbikes, but I suppose you could say I found a different horsepower.” Yet, in spite of his alacrity, Sergeant Bailey is a passionate horseman who grew up riding and competed in equestrian events before the demands of police work caused him to choose between his career and sporting endeavours. Now with thirty years service behind him, he came to the City of London to take charge of the mounted police just twelve months ago from Bridgend in Wales, where he set up the equestrian department. “My wife and family are still in Wales, I go back every third week” he confessed with a shrug, yet he was keen to outline his busy year that began with the Lord Mayor’s Show and included the student protests, an English Defence League demo in Luton, football matches at Watford and Arsenal, and a Heavy Metal festival.

Before the mounted police were created in 1946, horses were drafted in from the cavalry and recently the stable had a visit from  blind ninety-seven-year-old who had lead the last cavalry charge in battle – an event which filled Sergeant Bailey with awe. “I can’t imagine what that was like,” he confided, as a vision of a distant harsher world, even if he admitted that “if a bomb went off, we would have horses out on the streets for seven hours at a stretch.”

Sergeant Bailey introduced his four horses in the stalls that morning. Trader, a powerful white stallion quivering with life, reached over to scrutinise us while Little Dave, a smaller dark horse, eyed us from a distance – weary from the traffic patrol that morning. Opposite, Finn, the oldest horse, with ten years service, stood composed and dignified and then Roxie, the only mare, pushed her glossy striped head over the gate to greet us enthusiastically.

There are one hundred and twenty five horses in the Metropolitan Police today where twenty years ago there were over two hundred and fifty. A fact which makes Sergeant Bailey evangelical on behalf of his charges, advocating the horses’ credentials as cheaper and greener than motorcars. “In the Summer, cafe owners bring out a bucket of water for them,” he told me, “People  feel safer when they see horses on the street.”

Photographs copyright © Patricia Niven