The cat on the Lane is something of a local celebrity. A luxuriant silver tabby, it likes to sit on the pavement outside the café opposite the bus stop, completely unbothered by the dogs, shoppers, and buses passing by.
Why this cat chooses to frequent the Lane rather than stick to the safety of its own back garden seems contrary to expectation. But it’s easy to forget that cats are curious creatures, and that they come in all dispositions. Perhaps this one enjoys the hustle and bustle of the Lane, with its multitude of sights, smells, and hands willing to offer it a stroke. Perhaps some cats, like many humans, enjoy solitude in company.
The fact that this particular tabby feels content and safe on such a busy thoroughfare is, I believe, a testament to the goodness of the Lane. If I were a cat, I too would choose this as my place.
I have lived just off the Lane since I was four, and for me it is an avenue of happy memories: the gift shop where childhood-me bought hair bows, bath pearls, and furry stickers; the long-gone video shop; the once-upon-a-time newsagent with its stash of 1p foam shrimps, flying saucers, and chocolate mice; the bookshop where I worked in my early twenties, serving some of the Lane’s more colourful characters.
I remember fondly the first Christmas they festooned the plane trees with fairy lights. These days, I’m most likely to be found browsing one of the two charity shops or eating a ginormous almond croissant from the bakery. But however old I get, however much life changes, whenever I step onto the Lane, I am eight years old again. It is Saturday. It is summer.
The cat sits with its eyes closed as clouds, cyclists, and a big red bus roll by.
It pains me, truly, to think that one day I will no longer come here. In many ways, I am already something of a tourist. My home is elsewhere now.
So I set out to paint it: this extraordinary ordinary cat in this extraordinary ordinary place.
Part-way through, I stare at the canvas. My inner critic, as always, is sneering.
“This is rubbish. What’s the point? Why paint this?”
One thing I’ve discovered that helps in these moments is to think of whatever I’m working on as a puzzle rather than an expression of my deepest soul; not a visual embodiment of all my talent, self-worth, and value as a human being.
It’s just a puzzle. A visual puzzle. You only need to solve it, bit by bit.
I tell myself this, and I’m able to crack on. Or paint on.
When I finish, I am quite pleased. It feels as though everything is in harmony: the pieces slotted into place, the colours well calibrated, the cat a good blend of mystery and reality. I hope I’ve done them both justice.
Leave a Reply