Spitalfields Life

Ever since my cat Mr Pussy died last year, readers have been writing to enquire when I will get another and thus it is my great pleasure to introduce Schrodinger, formerly of Shoreditch Church.

With your help I am compiling a collection of stories of my old cat THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY, A Memoir Of A Favourite Cat to be published bySpitalfields Life Books on 20th September. There are two ways you can help publish the book.

1. I am seeking readers who are willing to invest £1000 in THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY. In return, we will publish your name in the book and invite you to a celebratory dinner hosted by yours truly. If you would like to know more, please drop me an email spitalfieldslife@gmail.com

2. Preorder a copy of THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY and you will receive a signed and inscribed copy in September when the book is published.

Click here to preorder your copy

Who is this newcomer in the house, perched so warily upon the carpet? It is none other than our old feline friend, Schrodinger the Shoreditch Church cat. Reverend Paul Turp’s retirement meant that Schrodinger needed a new home, so I was asked if I might be willing to take him and thus Schrodinger came to live with me in Spitalfields.

Recently, many disappointed visitors to Shoreditch Church have been asking where the cat has gone. Over his two years there, Schrodinger acquired a popular following who celebrated him for dropping a mouse at the feet of the Bishop of London, jumping onto the shoulders of the Bishop of Stepney and parading in the aisle, singing to the audience during classical music concerts.

No doubt Schrodinger was surprised to find himself in my house, yet he quickly grew to appreciate the comfort of carpets and upholstered furniture by contrast with the stone floors and bare wooden pews of Shoreditch Church. When he arrived in the spring, I was still lighting a fire every night and this became an evident source of pleasure for him after the long winter nights he spent in the cold, sleeping in the crypt among the crumbling coffins and dusty tombs. Schrodinger arrived one Sunday after the service and quickly fell into a delighted slumber after I presented him with a dish of freshly cooked chicken, thus introducing him to my weekly ritual of a roast dinner at the end of the week.

I bought a sheepskin and put it on the old wing chair where Mr Pussy used to sit, so that Schrodinger might feel at home there. On his first night, I woke to check on him and found him lying on his back in the chair, asleep with his limbs distended in the firelight. It was an encouraging sign.

After the freedom that Schrodinger enjoyed to roam in the huge church, I feared he might grow frustrated to discover himself confined in my house and tear the place up. I covered furniture in blankets and put away breakable china. Yet Schrodinger was placid in his new home, content to sit upon his sheepskin in the warm and doze his days away. Even if my church was smaller than the one he came from, there was the compensation of domestic comfort. Most touching was his obvious delight and gratitude at eating fresh food which was a novelty for him.

We sat and regarded each other in mutual curiosity, Schrodinger in his wing chair and me perched upon the sofa. I observed that his black raiment and white collar gave him an ecclesiastical air while his curious half-handlebar moustache indicated his origin among the modish folk of Shoreditch. I wish I could reveal Schrodinger’s observations about me but he is too discreet to disclose them.

In those first weeks, Schrodinger was wary. He looked at me suspiciously as if to ascertain for what purpose I had interned him. Keeping his distance, he leapt from the wing chair if he heard footsteps on the stair and hid behind it, peering round to examine any newcomer entering the room.

Since it was Schrodinger’s reputation for vanishing which gave him his name, I was concerned that he might disappear if I let him go outside too soon, making his way back to Shoreditch Church again. So I was careful to lock the cat flap and only open windows from the top,  just enough for ventilation but not sufficient to permit an agile cat to escape. Yet the very first time I left him alone in the house, Schrodinger vanished.

I arrived back after a couple of hours away and Schrodinger was no longer asleep in the chair where I had left him. I searched the house conscientiously, going from room to room systematically, peering under the bed and other furniture by torchlight. It was a mystery. I checked the windows and I could find no way out. I checked the rooms again and examined every possible hiding place – but he was nowhere to be found. There was only one conclusion. My hair stood on end at this possibility. Had he acquired the name Schrodinger after the thought experiment of Schrodinger’s Paradox – which proposes that a cat can be present and be absent at the same time – because he really had the ability to disappear?

I could not accept the notion that I had adopted a cat with supernatural powers, so I retraced my steps again and, when I turned, I found Schrodinger standing behind me. The reason I could not find him before was because he had followed quietly behind me round the house all the time I was searching. He looked at me blankly but I realised this was a cat of sly intelligence.

After three weeks, Schrodinger began to show signs of restlessness, checking the cat-flap every day and attempting to open it. He had gained weight and needed more exercise. By now, the weather had improved and it was cruel to prevent him going outside into the sunlight any longer.

Every few days, the warden at Shoreditch Church came to check on Schrodinger’s progress in his new home and offer him reassurance. He was the only person to whom Schrodinger would respond if summoned. So when the time came to let Schrodinger outside for the first time in Spitalfields, the warden came round lest he bolt off and got lost in the warren of streets, yards and alleys.

It was May Day and a fine warm morning when we opened the door and sat in the garden, waiting to see if Schrodinger would follow us outside. Sure enough he appeared, poised in the doorway. Then he walked up the path to the unmarked spot at the foot of the rambling rose where I buried the ashes of Mr Pussy and placed his paws upon the ground. He held them there for perhaps thirty seconds of stillness, before snapping out of his reverie and wandering off to explore the garden.

I was astonished by what I had witnessed but when I explained the significance of it to the warden, he reminded me that Schrodinger was used to Shoreditch Churchyard which is full of interments and so, perhaps, this moment of recognition was not so surprising. Once he had paid due respect to his predecessor, Schrodinger took a brief promenade of the garden and went back into the house. Then I unlocked the cat flap which permits him to come go as he pleases, and he has not disappeared yet.

You may expect further reports on Schrodingers’s life in Spitalfields.

“I realised this was a cat of sly intelligence”

“I observed that his black raiment and white collar gave him an ecclesiastical air while his curious half-handlebar moustache indicated his origin among the modish folk of Shoreditch”

“I bought a sheepskin and put it on the old wing chair where Mr Pussy used to sit, so that Schrodinger might feel at home there”

You may also like to read about

Schrodinger, Shoreditch Church Cat

Below you can read another of the stories of my old cat Mr Pussy who died last year, which I am collecting  into a book entitled THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY, A Memoir Of A Favourite Cat to be published bySpitalfields Life Books on 20th September.

There are two ways you can help publish the book.

1. I am seeking readers who are willing to invest £1000 in THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY. In return, we will publish your name in the book and invite you to a celebratory dinner hosted by yours truly. If you would like to know more, please drop me an email spitalfieldslife@gmail.com

2. Preorder a copy of THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY and you will receive a signed and inscribed copy in September when the book is published. Click here to preorder your copy

My old cat, Mr Pussy, loves water. While others detest getting their feet wet, he has never been discouraged by rain, even delighting to roll in wet grass. Consequently, when he languishes in hot weather, I commonly sponge him down with cold water – an ecstatic experience that leaves him swooning.

Although I am conscientious to leave him a daily dish of fresh water beside his bowl of dry biscuits, he prefers to drink rainwater or running water, seeking out puddles, ponds and dripping taps. Sometimes when I have been soaking in the bath, he has even appeared – leaping nimbly onto the rim – and craned his long neck down and extended his pink tongue to lap up my bath water, licking his lips afterwards out of curiosity at the tangy, soapy flavour. And when I choose to stand in the bath and take a shower, he likes to jump in as I jump out to lap up the last rivulets before they vanish down the drain.

One day, I took the shower-head and left it lying upon the floor of the bath, switching on the water briefly to wash away the soap in order to leave him clean water to drink. Thus a new era began. He perched upon the rim of the bath, his eyes widening in fascination at the surge of water bouncing off the sides of the tub in criss-crossing currents. This element introduced a whole new level of interest for him and now it has become a custom, that I switch on the shower for a couple of seconds, so that he may leap onto the bath and manoeuvre himself down to lick up the racing trails before they disappear.

It was something I did occasionally to indulge him, then daily, and now he demands it whenever he sees me in proximity – perhaps a dozen times yesterday and sometimes in the middle of the night too. The game begins with the spectacle of the surge of water coursing around the bath. He gets pretty excited watching the rush. And then, as soon as the water is switched off, he lets himself down head first, leaving his back legs on the rim and moving swiftly to slurp up the rivulets as they run. Each time it is a different challenge and the combination of the necessity of quick thinking, of nimble gymnastics and the opportunity of refreshment is compelling for him.

In the winter – you will recall – I found myself letting him in and out of the drawing room door, as he sought respite from the warmth and then re-admission again five minutes later. I am aware of his controlling nature and the pleasure he draws in extricating these favours from me, yet this new game has become a compulsion for him in its own right. When it gives him such euphoria, I cannot refuse his shrill requests, trilling liking a song bird and indicating the bathroom with a deliberate twist of his neck.

From the moment I turn my steps in that direction he is ahead of me, leaping up and composing his thoughts upon the brink with the intensity of a diver before a contest. Hyper-alert when I switch on the tap momentarily, he is rapt by the sensory overload of the multiple spiralling streams of water and intricate possibilities for intervention. Running all the decisions in his mind, he may even make a move before the water is switched off. Unafraid to soak his feet, he places two paws down into the swirling current and starts to lap it up fast. Observing his skill and engagement as a credulous yet critical spectator of his sport, I cannot deny he is getting better at negotiating the bathtub runnels. His technique is definitely improving with practice.

Within a minute, the water has drained to trickles and, before I may rediscover my own purpose, he seeks a repeat performance of his new game – and thus, with these foolish pastimes, we spend our days and nights in the empty house in Spitalfields.

CLICK HERE TO PREORDER A COPY OF THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY