I spend most of my days at home reading status on facebook. I don’t work. Don’t ask me how I survive in an expensive city like London. I have managed to fool people to give me money and living off it pretty comfortably in an East London semi detached house. It is quite lavish compared to my position. I have a room I can lock myself up without being interrupted for days. The views from my window are a Chelsea inspired garden of East European neighbours on one side; a bitter and wretched baby making machine wife’s kitchen garden on the other and two lazy cats straight across. The walls are incredibly thin, a fact I forget during private conversations. I have the luxury to stay awake the whole night and sleep for the whole day, which I tend to blame on the cats having an influence on me. I could stare at them all day. They are frequent visitors of our backyard storage shed crammed with all the stuff our landlord never feel like getting rid off. The cats find it a comfortable place to hang out during the winter.

The fat one, which I presumed was pregnant and picked our place to give birth instead of its own home on the other side of the fence, is an Egyptian Mau and the other one a Bengal cat. I could never imagine cats can be that beautiful and incredibly shy about it. The two of them chose the storage shed as their dating venue. I have never seen cats dating in secret. Back home I was used to seeing cats making love fiercely without any concerns about the onlookers. Bravo to the owners. They must have trained them well. The kids in the neighborhood will never ask awkward questions to their parents. The secret of birth will remain safe for a while.

A few days later, I was awfully disappointed to find out the fat one was not pregnant. It was just lazy and overfed. I shouldn’t complain. Once a shop assistant asked me the most outrageous question – “Are you looking for maternity clothing?”  I took a breath, pulled my stomach in and decided I was never stepping into that store again. That was my punishment - loose a customer. But the cats need not bother. The Egyptian Mau sits on the pile of junk for hours. I used to check out for cuddly kittens and instead I found a hermit staring back at me, “What do you want? Get a life and stop following me. Can’t you see I’m taking a nap?” Yes, I must agree I have been fooled. My imagination is dominated by the films I love. Ever since I saw Maya Derren’s The Private Life of a Cat I imagined being a witness of the amazing event of birth. We humans are nothing compared to them. The confidence and strength of an animal in labour is adorable. No screaming, no blaming, no trauma, just pure and simple fact of life. This was as close as it could get. The owners must have neutered her. I couldn’t keep my cat alive let alone see it become a father. Perhaps it was for best. Never bring a pet home where it is least welcomed. I could hardly survive being a human. I guess he considered my situation and gave up its eight lives. He was extremely intelligent for a cat. I feel sorry for him that he had to leave a Frenchman’s lawn to live in my makeshift bedroom that used to be a kitchen. I taught him how to jump through the gaps of the windows in my room, which literally resembled a cage. They were especially designed to keep us away from drug addicts and thieves who would wander around the veranda when everyone is asleep. I would never imagine a drug addict would choose our 1^st floor apartment to climb up to for a night’s rest. But it did happen one night. The verandah stretched on all sides of our apartment and it was too expensive to put a cage all around. It was quite usual to make balconies and windows well protected but ours was extreme. A couple of rounds were a good daily exercise. It was just like a moat around the castle with no water and crocodiles to prevent escape, in this case, tress-passers; we never quite thought about escaping. The world outside was too harsh for us, for my cat and the worst part was that he was not even invited inside the cage. So where could he go?