seat next to where I was sitting.
I was gobsmacked. I realised – finally – that I wasn’t ever going to shake this cat off. But then I realised something else.
I invited Bob to jump on my lap, which he did in the blink of an eye. A moment or two later, the conductor appeared. She was a cheerful West Indian lady and smiled at Bob, then me.
‘Is he yours?’ she said, stroking him.
‘I guess he must be,’ I said.
Chapter 5
Centre of Attention
For the next forty-five minutes or so, Bob sat quietly next to me, his face pressed against the glass of the bus window, watching the world go by. He seemed to be fascinated by all the cars, cyclists, vans and pedestrians whizzing past us; he wasn’t fazed at all.
The only time he pulled away from the window and looked to me for a little reassurance was when the blare of a police siren, a fire engine or an ambulance got a bit too close for comfort. This surprised me a bit and once more set me thinking about where he had spent his early life. If he had grown up on the streets he would have got used to this noise a long, long time ago.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I told him, each time giving him a friendly stroke on the back of the neck. ‘This is what the middle of London sounds like, Bob, better get used to it.’
It was odd, even though I knew he was a street cat and could run away at any time, I had this deep-seated feeling that he was here in my life to stay. Somehow I sensed this wouldn’t be the last time we’d make this trip together.
I was going to get off at my usual bus stop near Tottenham Court Road tube station. As it loomed into view, I picked up my guitar, scooped up Bob and headed for the exit. On the pavement, I fished around in my coat pocket and found the makeshift shoelace lead that I’d left in there after taking Bob out to do his business the evening before.
I put it around his neck then placed him down. I didn’t want him wandering off. The junction of Tottenham Court Road and New Oxford Street was bustling with shoppers, tourists and ordinary Londoners getting on with their day. He’d have been lost in a second – or, even worse, crushed by one of the buses or black cabs whistling towards and from Oxford Street.
Understandably, it was all a bit intimidating for Bob. It was unfamiliar territory for him - well, I assumed it was. I couldn’t be sure, of course. As we picked our way along I could tell from his slightly uptight body language and the way he kept looking up at me that he was uneasy. So I decided to take one of my normal short cuts through the back streets to get to Covent Garden.
‘Come on, Bob, let’s get you out of the crowds,’ I said.
Even then he wasn’t 100 per cent happy. Weaving our way through the throng, he kept shooting me looks as if to say he wasn’t quite sure about this. After only a few yards I could tell that he wanted me to pick him up.
‘All right, but don’t make a habit of it,’ I said, gathering him up and placing him on my shoulders just as I’d done crossing Tottenham High Road. He’d soon settled into a comfortable spot, at a slight angle across my right shoulder blade, with his front paws placed on the top of my arm, looking out like the occupant of the bird’s nest on some pirate ship. I couldn’t help smiling inwardly. I must look a bit like Long John Silver, except I had a puss rather than a parrot sailing along with me.
He certainly seemed to be very comfortable there. I could feel him purring lightly as we walked through the throng, across New Oxford Street and into the smaller streets leading down towards Covent Garden.
The crowds had thinned out by now and after a while I began to forget Bob was there. Instead I started to immerse myself in the usual thoughts that went through my mind on the way to work. Was the weather going to be good enough for me to get a solid five hours’ busking? Answer: Probably. It was overcast, but the clouds were white and high in the sky. There