Once more, longer absence from writing than had intended. Seems as if this is the norm and shouldn't expect myself to dash off daily or even weekly missives. Some famous person declared that people only have a finite amount of energy. In my experience this is even more true of cats. Despite the impression we give of spending most of the day snoozing in our baskets or stretched out in front of a fire, we expend copious amounts of energy on our thinking processes - whether or not we have aspirations of becoming academic. And when we are suddenly and unexpectedly called upon to care for friends or family, we have to be careful not to burn ourselves out.
All those thoughts raced through my mind when a wheel-chaired Henri greeted me at Waverley. In his lap he had a folder in which he'd collected a bunch of recipes from different chefs, all of whom could have been accused of plagiarising recipes. This was Henri's preparation for a court case. Compared to those recipes, the common ingredients in his Timbales de poireaux crémeux de noix, were laughably few. Tried to reassure him with this but could see the futility of my attempts. Henri is certainly a changed guinea pig to the one I said goodbye to several weeks earlier. This wasn't helped by the fact that we were turned away
from Café Nero, when we dropped in for a hot chocolate.
Decided to go home: the question was, which home? Was keen to be
back at my flat, but not so keen to have Henri there. At same time, didn't
want to go to Henri's place which is a tip. Then Henri's bag started
moving and Neville jumped out. 'Surprise, surprise,' he squeaked,
beaming. I was delighted to see him, and even Henri managed a smile.
Neither of us asked how Neville
managed to get there. Sometimes he can be resourceful. White mouse
was there for a purpose, however. 'I have a suggestion to
make,' he said. ' We'll go back to our flat and I'll teach Henri
how to breakdance.' Henri frowned at Neville. 'I'm in no fit state
to dance,' he said. 'Bollocks,' said Neville.
Henri and I both shrugged and followed Neville to the taxi queue. Normally taxi drivers at Waverley are sniffy about having animals as passengers. Neville knew this but jumped onto taxi driver's shoulder and admired the softness and colours of his tartan scarf and the man was so pleased - especially as he'd bought the scarf that morning at a sale in Princes Street - he told us to hop in.
Neville and I did.
Henri insisted on staying in his wheelchair as he wasn't in
good health, so the man lifted the chair into the back of the cab. As he secured Henri's wheelchair with a seatbelt, the man stared at him, then said. 'Hey, are you the guinea pig that's written a cookery book?' Henri nodded, and tried to look modest, but failed. 'My missus loves that book. I've worked this route for 10 years, and this is the first time I've met someone famous. Can I have your autograph please?'
Henri's smile was now splitting his face. The taxi driver handed him a map of Edinburgh, on which Henri wrote ' Henri de Silva, Chateau Varaigne'. Neville and I exchanged glances. This was the first time we'd heard of Henri's chateau.
We were by now the object of many curious looks from
other people in the taxi queue. Neville and Henri, now in the jauntiest of moods, both gave regal waves, and a chorus of
'Aw' could be heard from the passengers, as we pulled away from the station.
Purrs
Bakhtin
