Craig Faulkner: Novelist, musician, developer, 'owner' of cats (plural), occasional geek, human...ish.
Things I’ll miss about Nigel
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It would be impossible to list everything about Nigel that I'm going to miss now he has passed. To provide an exhaustive list would be to write a biography of his life from the moment he was first handed to me as a kitten, leaving nothing out. There are things I simply can't recall on command while I'm writing that will hit me at random points, often when I'm least expecting it. With his passing still so recent, many of those things hit hard when they come. For now, the new normal is to look at the world through a kaleidoscope of tears.
There are, however, still some smiles to be had. Nigel always made me smile. His seemingly endless abundance of affection and naturally playful demeanour meant there was always something to smile about. He may be gone now, but however hard some recollections may be, there are others that still bring me cheer.
The morning routine
We fed the cats three times a day: breakfast, teatime and last thing at night. My partner almost always takes the former, while I almost always take the latter. The middle one goes to whoever finishes work soonest.
On weekdays, the alarm goes off at 6am. On weekends, when it didn't go off at all, Nigel would ensure his presence was known a little while after that. While he didn't always start the night on the bed, we'd usually wake up to find him there. Quite often he'd be lying next to me. If not curled in a ball under my chin, he'd be stretched out with his back running against my chest and stomach. I always sleep on my side—never my back or front. Whichever side I was lying on, he'd be in front of me in the same position. If I turned over in the night so we were back to back, he'd get up, climb over me and resume the position the other way. Whichever side I was on, I could sleep with my arm draped over him, or my hand resting gently on his shoulder. I loved him being there. Even in my sleepiest state, I'd usually find the ability to flex my fingers a few time to fuss him before I fell back to sleep. It always produced the sweetest of purrs, a gentle rumble that helped us both to doze off again.
Once we were up, he'd be super-keen to get fed. He knew the routine as well as us. The sooner I'd stumble into the bathroom, the sooner my partner would take him downstairs. As such, he'd nudge or lead us each on our respective paths, hurrying us along so he could get his breakfast.
By the time I got downstairs, he'd be done. There were two places he'd be: in the utility room, waiting for me to empty the litter tray (he always liked a clean bowl!), or in the living room, curled up in my usual spot on the sofa. If it was the former, it would very shortly afterwards become the latter—just as soon as I'd done my thing so that he could do his.
We had a thing we did. I have a routine that keeps me in the kitchen for a while first thing and, knowing that it doesn't really involve him (and given that his belly is now full), he took the opportunity to wait for me in the living room. It was one of the rare occasions during the day where we weren't in the same room for any length of time, both content that routine alone would see us together again soon afterwards. Sometimes, however, I couldn't wait to see him again. Whether while seeing my partner off when she left for work or just because I had an urge to see him (which may sound like a post-passing embellishment, but trust me, it happened more than you'd believe), I'd creep along the hallway to steal a glance. Rather than simply go into the room, I'd stand out of sight in the doorway and slowly peer around. He was rarely fully sleep. Even dosing, he knew I was there. His eyes would open just a crack and he'd whisper the softest chirrup of excitement; not quite a full meow, sometimes just a squeak, but a sound that went right to my heart.
I can still remember the last time we did it. It made me so happy I danced in the hallway. I didn't realise then that it wouldn't happen again. While writing this, I stupidly leaned around the doorway the way I used to and saw only an empty sofa. It broke my heart all over again.
Breakfast
Most days—especially weekends—I have breakfast much later after I wake up. My morning routine involves time for exercise; most notably a certain amount of walking, even if it's just around the kitchen table. We're lucky enough to have quite a large kitchen so I can cover a reasonable distance. I do it while I check social media or read a book, reasoning that it's slightly healthier than doing those things while just being sat still. When I'm done, I'll make my breakfast (cereal, usually supermarket brand 'wheat biscuits') and take it through to the living room.
Nigel would almost always be curled up in my spot on the sofa. Depending on how tired he was, one of two things would happen: either he'd jump down for me, then settle back in the same position on my lap or on the arm of the sofa, or he'd chirrup affectionately at me and stay where he was. I'd never move him. If he was there first, it was his spot. If there was room, I'd sit next to him. If not, I'd sit on the opposite sofa. In the past, I've even sat on the floor to avoid disturbing him. There is a lot you'll learn about my affection for animals—and especially around those I'm privileged enough to share my home with—and very little I wouldn't do to ensure their continued happiness.
I usually let my breakfast settle a little before I eat it. I take the time to do other things: look at my phone again, continue reading a book, start work if, since lockdown, it was a workday, or sometimes simply spend time with Nigel. I always make time for the cats. They live very different lives and have very different ways of spending their time, but I know them both well enough to know where they'll be so I can spend time with them, and they always know to expect it. Spending time with Nigel during breakfast varied depending on how awake he was, but either involved resting my hand on his shoulders and gently stroking my thumb back and forth while he purred himself back to sleep, or a full on face-smashing session where he'd affectionately grind his face and head against my hand to get 'the good stuff'.
After a while, I'd pick up my cereal to eat. He'd always be awake for that bit, even if he stayed curled up with his eyes closed. I could see his ears pivoting to follow the course of the spoon and occasionally his eyelids would part just a sliver to check on my progress. Milk can be problematic for cats, so I was always careful not to leave more than the tiniest drip in the bottom of the bowl, but there would at least be something he could taste. That aside, I'd scrape the bowl clean of wheat debris to ensure he could get straight to the bit he was interested in. With all the little bits, that scraping process usually took longer than it did for me to eat the rest of the cereal, but I did it every single morning especially for him. He knew it too. It was during that scraping that he roused fully, sitting up next to me and waiting patiently for me to finish, knowing what was coming. I'd offer him the bowl, tilted so that tiny drop was in the same spot every morning, and he'd lap it up gratefully in just a few licks, smacking his lips for several seconds afterwards while he cleaned them with his tongue.
The morning after he passed, I followed the same routine, and the morning after that. The last drop remained where I left it. It was completely unconscious. It's so much of a habit that I've yet to be able to break it. For now, the only thing that feels broken is me. Breakfast time is so hard now, it's a wonder I manage to eat it. Today, I sat alone on the sofa and cried my eyes out for the best part of half an hour. I know it'll get easier in time, but for now I wish I didn't need to eat breakfast at all. I miss him.
Tail hugs
This anecdote is much shorter. It didn't have a specific time of day. It could happen at any time.
Sometimes I'd be standing up in a room in the house, or occasionally in the garden, and Nigel would trot excitedly over to me. Occasionally, I'm sure, it was because he was checking if there had been any adjustment to the feeding routine that might reward his efforts. Usually, it was just to say hi. Other times, the situation would be reversed. I'd trot over to him, not because I thought he'd feed me, but just because he was there.
We'd greet each other in much the same way every time. If he'd snuck up on me, or if I was doing something that meant my hands weren't immediately free, he'd start by head butting my legs. Otherwise, I'd lean down to stroke him as one approached the other and my hand would cup over one side of his face while he closed his eyes and pushed into it before sweeping around so I could get the other side. I didn't need to move my hand with Nigel. He was so enthusiastic that I could just leave it in one place and he'd move his head around until I'd scratched it all over. And, when we were done, he'd hug me.
I'm sure he's not the only cat to do it. Steve, my other cat, has occasionally tried a vague approximation of it, though not quite as completely. Nigel would fully wrap his tail around whatever limb presented itself. If it was my leg, I'd get one full wrap of black and brown stripes halfway up my shin. If it was my arm, it would be one and a half. And he'd squeeze. It wasn't tight—I don't think cat tails are capable of that—but there would be pressure there. As if this was a gesture that was intended. It was never brief, never short enough to be an accident of dexterity. It was deliberate, and he'd pause long enough to prove it.
I was reminded of this on the way to the bathroom this morning. I always made time to greet both cats. Now there is just Steve—to be clear, no less wonderful than Nigel in his own way, and I'll be similarly broken when he eventually passes too, but he's certainly a very different cat. This morning, I greeted Steve with a customary face rub. As I finished, he stood and sent his tail up along my arm. It wasn't a full wrap. It never is with Steve, and chances are my full-wrap days are over forever now. But it was a lovely gesture, and it reminded me of all those special moments I had with Nigel.
Sandwiches
In many ways, Nigel was a lot like any other cat. He was a lot more affectionate and certainly kinder and more personable than any other I've met, but he could revert to type given the right stimulus.
This one will be familiar to anyone who has ever owned a cat, and possibly anyone who has ever owned a dog too.
Nigel knew sandwiches. He knew the rustle of the bread wrapper, the thud of the margarine tub being placed on the counter, and the pop and clatter of its lid being opened and set aside. What went into the sandwich always needed investigating.
For the most part, both cats have always been well-behaved at food time. During the day, they sometimes get onto the worktops so they can look out of the window. We live at the end of a cul de sac, on the very edge of a new build estate, where modern urban living gives way to beautiful countryside. We arguably got one of the best houses on the estate in that sense, and it was the view that sold it to me. While to one side, you can just see houses much like any other new build estate, to the other, you can see mostly green. As a nature-lover, I spend hours looking outside, and I am, or was, rarely alone. Nigel in particular was as keen to look out as I was and spent as much time or more sitting on the kitchen windowsill and gazing into the woods next to the house, often chirruping and bleating at the vast array of birds that flew past (then quickly running away if they came in close because he was all talk).
Food time was different. We had rules, and as much as it's possible for cats to care, they obeyed them in the hope that doing so might earn rewards. We rarely gave the cats treats, but it was clearly often enough that they thought it was worth the effort.
Even if he wasn't in the room at the time, the sound of the margarine tub lid opening was enough to summon him. You almost never heard him approach. The usual click of his claws on the vinyl seemed to disappear when we made sandwiches. Maybe that was deliberate. The first sign would be a presence. It would either be just behind and slightly to your right, or at your left hand side. He wouldn't make a sound. He'd just stare up at the worktop and wait. Sometimes, if he thought it might improve his chances, he'd move to my left (if he wasn't there already) and put his front paws on the units. In case you didn't already know he was there, it was unavoidable then. The fact he was so close meant he couldn't resist rubbing his face against my thigh. Typical cat behaviour aside, he was still Nigel and couldn't resist a show of affection. Usually I was strong enough to resist this cuteness, but at the very least I'd stop what I was doing and lower my hand to him. He'd accept the fuss as gratefully as any treat, even if he still wouldn't take his eyes off the prize.
Steve is more subtle. He waits on the corner of the table behind me, letting Nigel do most of the legwork. If one got a treat, they both did, so it was in his interests too to let Nigel do his thing. I'm waxing lyrical about Nigel at the moment because he was my best friend and I miss him terribly, but it would be wrong to suggest I love Steve any less. But life, and sandwiches, won't be the same without Nigel. Today, Steve watched alone from the table. There was nobody there to do the work for him. He still got a treat.
Chicken
It's fair to say I eat a lot of chicken. I apologise to any vegetarians reading this. I admire and even envy your dietary choices, but my palette is so fussy that my meal options are incredibly limited. I try and eat as well as I can from the few things that don't make me balk or feel unwell later. This is one of those things. You can skip this one if you like.
As with sandwiches, Nigel had a routine here too, though it was one that extends well beyond preparation.
The chicken I have most often is the pre-cooked kind that comes in a tub from Tesco. A pack of four chicken breasts is enough for two meals and on average I have it at least twice a week, if not more. Nigel knew the sound of the tub: from the noise it made on the shelf in the refrigerator to its placement on the worktop and the tearing of the film. Again, on the rare occasions he wasn't in the room, these are the sounds that would summon him.
As with sandwich-making, he occupied either of the same two spots and offered the same mannerisms. But with chicken, there was a slight difference: he was always hoping I was on the second portion. The second portion means an empty tub, and unlike treats from any other meal, he always got the tub. More often than not, it was completely empty, but for a tiny amount of residue in the bottom. Occasionally, a tiny piece will have come loose, and he'd home in on that as soon as he noticed it as a perk of the job. Either way, the next few minutes would be soundtracked by the rasping of his tongue on the plastic while he polished it to a perfect sheen.
Once it was ready, I'd take my meal into the living room. Even if it wasn't chicken, Nigel would lead the way, looking back over his shoulder to ensure I was following. Once I sat down on the sofa, he had a choice of places where he'd sit to watch me eat. Sometimes, he'd cheekily come over to inspect the plate. Unlike Steve, who stops at a sniff, Nigel would full-on lean in and try to take something. And he was so fluid with it. In the same movement as he'd lean in to sniff, he could have his teeth around a slice of bread and be gone with it as he withdrew. Once he made off with a whole piece of steak. If you were on your guard, however, he'd retreat to a safe distance to wait.
Since I eat the same meal so often, I've unconsciously developed a kind of routine to how I eat it. This routine wasn't unnoticed by Nigel, who had very consciously developed his own to work alongside it. I usually have two slices of bread with my meal. On the assumption Nigel hasn't stolen one (he only succeeded a few times, but he tried every time), I tend to have one halfway through the meal and the other at the end. When I lifted the first one, Nigel would creep closer. Whether he was on the opposite sofa, or on the floor in front of the DVD shelves, he'd move forward either to the floor in front of me, or onto the coffee table. His final approach would happen on cue the moment I picked up the second one. If he was on the floor, he'd jump up onto the sofa next to me. If he was on the coffee table, on which I have a bad habit of putting my feet (albeit on a coaster), he would walk the length of my legs. He would then proceed to clean my plate the same way he did the tub.
On the subject of the tub, it always went into the recycling when he was done (and not until). We have dedicated recycling bins in the utility room for the different kinds of waste, but some of them fill up fast. As such, there's an open-topped 'anything goes' tub to hold the overflow until we're ready to take it outside and sort it into the various containers Warwick District Council provide for its collection. On the occasions the chicken tub found its way into the open-topped recycling tub, you could guarantee that, at some point in the next twenty-four hours, it would be revisited. Sometimes he'd make a rare departure from my side to seek it out. Other times he'd wait until I went into the kitchen and take the opportunity to investigate while I was still nearby. Either way, you would always hear the clatter while he climbed into the recycling tub, moved any other items out of the way, then very thoroughly checked for even the vaguest hint of anything he might have missed the first time.
He had similar routines for every meal, but chicken seemed to be his favourite—perhaps for its frequency, perhaps for the tub, or perhaps just because I'm imagining it: in truth, he would have helped himself to almost any meal if he could. He'd do similar things with my partner too. She normally eats with her plate, or whatever she is eating from, on the arm of the sofa. Pretty much every time I'd see his little face pop up over the arm to see if she was done yet, and when she was, he'd jump up there to clean up the scraps. Conscious of keeping him healthy, we were both careful to make sure there was never anything left (okay, fine, usually never anything left), but just the routine of scouring away the last of the flavours was enough to satisfy him, and he always walked away exaggeratedly licking his face clean.
At the time of writing, it's been two days, and already meal times are amongst the most difficult times of day.
The bringing of the straws
When we first got Steve, we bought an array of cat toys with which to keep him amused. Some were ignored. Others were a hit. Among his favourites were some 'mice' made of coarse string wrapped around a rattle and a weird octopus-like thing on a length of elastic that dangled from a stick. With the former, he played an enthusiastic game of fetch. With the latter, he'd run laps of the coffee table until exhaustion kicked in.
When Nigel came along a couple of years later, Steve's interest in toys started to wane. He still shows the occasional interest even now, but his play time is definitely much-reduced since he's become an adult. Nigel, however, was a blur of energy—initially in short frantic bursts that ended when he fell asleep on the spot mid-stride until he was old enough to stay awake longer. Sadly, this manic energy quickly saw the end of Steve's favourite octopus toy; an act I'm certain he never forgave Nigel for.
With a new cat, came new toys. Among them were a selection of colourful straws made of woven plastic thread. We'd had some before Nigel came along, but, while interested, Steve seemed to much prefer his string-mice. Nigel, however, loved the straws. Come to think of it, he loved anything vaguely tubular: pens, pencils, paint brushes. I lost count of the number of times I heard my partner yell his name from upstairs while she was getting ready for work, only for him to trot through the living room moments later with a makeup brush in his mouth. The straws, however, were among his favourites.
The main benefit of the straws was that the way they were woven meant that you could compress them until they were short, then release them and have them fly across the room. For a cat like Nigel, this is one of the best things any object can do. The second it left your hand, he'd bound after it, trying to catch it before it landed, then pouncing on it when he failed. He wasn't quite as good as Steve at bringing things back, but he would sometimes manage to do so eventually, having first given it a tour of the ground floor in his mouth.
The best part was that they'd just keep appearing. Some of them you wouldn't see for weeks or months, then one day it would get delivered right to your feet. Other days I'd find one waiting for me outside the door when I came out of the bathroom, occasionally without a cat in sight. Sometimes I'd be in the kitchen making dinner when I'd hear a commotion under the table, only to have a previously lost straw skitter out from under one of the chairs to stop at my feet. Whenever and however one appeared, I knew there was a game afoot.
One of Nigel's favourite activities was to try and get a straw from somewhere he wouldn't ordinarily be able to reach. He loved a challenge. Sometimes I'd balance them on door handles or worktops, the backs of chairs or between the spindles of a balustrade in the hallway. On the rare occasions I was occupied, however, he'd make his own challenge. Several times, I saw him carry a straw to a box in his mouth, then drop it in before trying to get it out again. He'd frequently flick one under the sofa or a low-bottomed table or side unit only to then have to scrabble about on the floor to get it back out. Sometimes he could. When he did, he put it straight back under, but a little further back, and tried again. If he couldn't do it, he'd come and get me and I'd usually have to fetch it out with a stick. I'm convinced he did that on purpose just so I'd play with him. It worked.
There were other toys he liked too. There was a 'feathery thing on a stick' (like the octopus, but with feathers instead of weird dangly tentacles). This was kept in a drawer next to my seat on the sofa. Often when he came to see me, he'd paw at the drawer it was in (always the right drawer—never one of the others) in the hope I'd get it out and play with him. When I did, we'd have about a minute of frantic pouncing and athletic jumping, then he'd lay down exhausted and wouldn't bother again. He'd still look disappointed when I put it away—perhaps assuming I'd just swing it around idly so he could watch it instead. Sometimes I did. There were also laser pointers in another drawer. It was the same deal with those. In fact, I couldn't open either drawer without summoning him into the room (if he wasn't there already). He knew the sound each drawer made—and again, specifically those drawers—and always ran to the right one, even if I'd already closed it before he arrived. He was always hopeful that I'd indulge him. Again, sometimes I did.
There are still straws dotted around the house. Steve occasionally shows a passing interest, but I doubt most of them will be played with again. There's one in particular that I've been trying to find. He had a couple of favourites: a green one that looks like (and may even be) the first one he ever played with, and a dark purple one he had been playing with a fair bit in the last couple of months. The latter has been disappearing and reappearing for the last year. I last saw him playing with it about a month ago under the kitchen table. It's actually in the picture of him at the end of my last blog—taken at the end of June, which could well have been the last time I saw it. In a fit of grief-fuelled panic, I damn near tore the downstairs rooms apart this morning to try and find it before I managed to pull myself together. I didn't manage to. If I could, I'd like to keep it somewhere safe in his memory, though by the looks of it, he's already hidden it really well, perhaps in anticipation of another joint retrieval. It shouldn't bother me, but I wish I knew where he'd put it. I know the sadness will pass, but for now I'm clinging desperately for any keepsake I can find. In life, anything that was important to him was important to me. That's even more true now.
And many more
There are so many more things about Nigel that I'm going to miss. The above are just a handful that I wanted to get down. Today has been difficult. It's the first weekday where I'm home alone—just me and Steve—and it's been so incredibly hard. While I was preemptively aware of how much of my day in some way included him, there are still so many unconscious processes that seem to falter in Nigel's absence. Writing has always been therapeutic for me. Thinking about Nigel these last few days has made me cry more often than not. The time I've spent writing about him is about the only time I've been able to hold it together. If you're reading this, it's because I posted it to my blog, but I don't intend to share links on social media the way I would with anything else. This is just to help me process things. It's to try and find a way to capture these memories while they're still fresh and raw so that I need never worry about forgetting them. If I can get them down in writing, and especially if I can do so before I have to face the routine of some of them for the first time without him, my hope is that it will help me heal.
There are more memories I could share; more things I'll miss, some of which haven't even registered yet. If I need to write those down too later, I will. For now I'll leave this here. Nigel was such an important part of my life for the seven years he was with us. My routines were, in many ways, his routines, and vice versa. Untangling the two so that I can move on with my life is going take time.
Eventually, I will, knowing that to do so in no way dishonours his memory or takes away from his place in my life. It hurts so much that he was torn away so suddenly, and while still so young. I know that feeling that pain only reinforces the fact that I loved him so much. I miss every single thing about him. I always will.
For Nigel
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I've never met anyone quite like Nigel. He was kind, he was funny, he was affectionate. He had a mischievous streak a mile wide, but he was pure with it; always innocent in intent. He made me smile. He made me laugh. He made me happy. He kept me company. In truth, I realised recently, he had become my best friend. He was also a cat.
I know lots of people that would think it ridiculous for a grown man to feel so attached to a pet. That's okay. If you haven't experienced it yourself, I can appreciate why. In your shoes, I might even feel the same. It does sound silly. But if you'll indulge me a while, you might at least come to understand why I don't mind being ridiculous; why, for many years, it has been the most worthwhile thing I could be. Almost everyone forms a bond with those around them. As humans, many of our closest bonds are with other people. We might grow attached to an animal, but we rarely hold them in the same regard as we would a human. There are good reasons for this: we're the same species, we have the same desires, we share (or can share) a common language. But bonds can take many forms. If anything, often the only thing they have in common is love.
Anyone who has had a pet will understand this—especially those who have had a cat or dog (though there are, I'm sure, other animals with which one could develop a similar bond). However much you interact with them, even if you just live in the same house while someone else takes care of them, pets become a part of your life. It might be in subtle ways, such as the familiar sound of them padding across a hard surface at certain times of day, or more in depth ways, such as having them as a constant companion, but they will find a way into your routine. I've known people who, by their own admission, didn't much care for animals who, when they were gone, felt the loss far more than they thought possible. The more time you spend with them, intentionally or otherwise, the more likely you are to form a strong connection.
I love animals. I got that from my dad. As a child, he shared his excitement for all things non-human with me. I inherited his fascination with wildlife and his affection for those we might consider pets. It was because of him I got my first cat, and—many years later—why I gave two cats a home as an adult.
I'm writing this today because one of those cats passed away yesterday. It was sudden and unexpected. He was so young: just over seven years old. And, as I already said, he was my best friend.
We got Nigel from a gumtree ad on the 28th of June 2014. He'd been born a couple of months earlier (29th April) and was bright-eyed, playful and the most beautiful tabby kitten you've ever seen. He was also, unbeknownst to us, covered in fleas. Once that was dealt with, however, he quickly became an integral part of our home.
Unlike our other cat, Steve, Nigel spent the majority of his early life being fairly aloof. Right up to his final days, he never lost his kitten-like mannerisms and behaviours—still as eager to chase and pounce on anything that caught his attention as he had been when we got him. In his first few years, however, he was so playful, and so easily distracted, that he barely acknowledged us at all except as the providers of food. He had little to no interest in fuss and spent most of his time with a wild-eyed fascination with the world around him, and in particular with whatever delights it might present to chase. In recent years, however, that changed. While still playful and active, he settled enough to develop the most incredible personality I've ever known in a cat.
Nigel was easily the most affectionate and selfless cat I've ever known. That's not to say he wasn't sometimes as self-serving as any other when he wanted something, but as much as it is possible, he seemed to come to care for us almost as much as we did him. He didn't like being on his own if there was a chance he could be near us instead. He'd follow us wherever we went, often trying to 'help' with whatever we were doing, but usually just trying to be nearby. He got visibly excited when he saw us, and purred at the sound of his own name (or any of the nicknames we probably used far more than we ever used 'Nigel').
With lockdown being as it has been in the last eighteen months, I've spent the vast majority of my time at home. I've been to 'an office' (I recently changed employer, hence not just 'the office') a mere handful of times in that period, and it's only in the last few months that I've started leaving the house for anything else at all. Even then, it's usually just been for the amount of time it takes to do the weekly shop, but he'd be waiting when I got back. Nigel and I were very close even before lockdown started, but the bond we established since made us almost inseparable. Except for those few occasions I left the house, he was rarely more than a handful of metres from me. More often than not, he would follow me into any room I went and usually find somewhere to curl up for the duration of my time in there, always with one ear in my direction in case I made to leave. In the evenings, he would jump up onto the arm of the sofa and head butt me incessantly until I fussed him, all the time rumbling with the most gorgeous motor-boat purr of his. Within minutes, he'd usually be upside down, snoozing with his head and/or paws resting on my chest or stomach, or even relocated entirely to my lap. At night, I'd wake to find him stretched out along my side, fast asleep, or curled up in a tight ball in front of my pillow so my chin was resting on his side. Even when I was working—usually in the kitchen or living room—he'd find a space on the table, or on a chair I'd have to pull out next to me for that specific purpose... at least when he wasn't trying to walk or sit on the laptop and sending indecipherable messages to my colleagues.
And I indulged him. I honestly couldn't imagine doing anything else. Having him settle down with me was a highlight of my day, no matter how often it happened in any twenty-four hour period. It was only a few weeks ago that I was shaking my head and laughing at myself for how stupidly excited I got when I saw him come into the living room after me; how much I willed him to jump up onto the arm of the chair so we could touch foreheads while I rubbed his shoulders and scratched his cheeks. And I felt that way every time. Even when he did something naughty—like pulling up the carpet when I'd had the audacity to shut him out of the room I was in (usually the bathroom) and he desperately wanted to follow—my anger would immediately ebb away the moment I saw him. I couldn't be mad with him. Seeing him, and how fondly he looked at me, just made me too damn happy.
The vast majority of us—I would hope all, but sadly, I know there will be exceptions—will have something or somebody that makes us feel good whenever we see them. Even then, there will be times when that isn't true. Maybe there will be an argument, or something that reminds us, however briefly, of something sad. With Nigel, I can't think of a single such exception. I can't think of a time where seeing him made me feel anything but love. Even on the handful of occasions where he was ill—and, of course, in the final hours of his life when a sudden ailment brought him low without warning—there was worry, but there was always love. Seeing him never failed to fill my heart to the brim.
Nigel was my best friend. He was my constant companion, my shadow, the kindest, sweetest, most affectionate cat in the world. I don't know if cats love, but from his behaviour, I can't imagine he felt anything less for us than that. And in return, he wanted for nothing. I would do anything for him; just as I'd do anything to have him touch foreheads with me again today. His absence will leave a hole in my life I expect I'll never fill. However exaggerated it sounds, I am devastated by his loss—so young, so sudden. My heart—my entire being—feels broken. But I am so grateful for the seven years we spent together. He was the best of cats, and the best of friends, and he made me a better human.
Rest easy, Poo-cat. I love you more than you could ever have imagined. I hope we gave you a wonderful life, however unfairly short it was. And I hope you know that you returned that favour a million times over every single day. I'm going to miss you so much.
Nigel Faulkner, 29th April 2014 – 7th August 2021.
My shadow, my little dude, my best friend.
Things I miss during lockdown
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I miss going to the theatre. I miss the queue to get in and the huddle in the lobby. I miss hearing the debates as to which door people need to go through to get to their seats; mansplainers authoritatively declaring that they know their way around perfectly well—“thank you very much, Margery”—only to be turned around and sent in the other direction by the usher. I miss the shuffling of tickets, the scanning or tearing of stubs, the reading and re-reading of letters and numbers to memorise where we need to be and hoping it isn’t too close to poor Margery’s partner.
I miss the hunt for our seats, stepping over handbags and coats, the sighs of the person on the end of the row who already stood up four times and who, last time, was almost pinned to the wall by a fellow patron with a larger back stage area than the venue. I miss seeing those in the wrong seats politely informed of their predicament; the oh so British manner of wrong and wronged apologising for the mistake, then apologising again for apologising over the other’s apology. I miss fold-down seats and armrests too thin for either neighbour to use. I don’t miss having less leg room than a giraffe in a bobsleigh, but I miss the spectacles I’ve endured such hardships for. I miss the rustle of sweet wrappers, their contents demolished as fast as possible lest they rustle again once the room falls silent.
I miss the dimming of the house lights, and the hush that follows. The swell of the orchestra or the first thudding steps of the show’s protagonist. I miss the opening song or monologue, the myriad of set changes and the hurry to replace costumes from one scene to the next. That one line, that refrain, that delicate arrangement of notes, that sets me up for what I’m about to witness, stealing into my subconscious and grasping tight. I miss the unfolding of a story, losing myself so much that I forget I’m watching people do this live. I miss the punchlines and titters, one-liners and guffaws, melancholy and tears, lumps in throats, gasps and wonder. I miss the character or tune added for comic effect, and the rousing crescendo that precedes the interval.
I miss the queue for overpriced, undersized tubs of ice-cream and the snap of the not-quite-spoon included inside the lid. I miss watching the line for the toilets, glad that I went before we left; seeing those at the wrong end checking their watches, crossing and uncrossing their legs, hoping that the five minute warning is long enough to do what biology dictates must be done. I miss the scramble to return in time, those last few seconds of standing, legs stretched and bruised knees throbbing ahead of another giraffe analogy to come.
I miss the medley of melodies as the show resumes; conductor and conducted reminding us of character themes and the tunes we’ll be playing in our heads on the journey home and throughout the days that follow. I miss the return of actors, watered and towelled down as they carry us towards epilogue and encore. I miss the the bows and the applause, the standing ovations and the cheers for our leads, prime or understudy in ascendency.
I miss the fall of the curtain, the bright yellow light that floods the auditorium, the hunt for coats and scarfs in winter, or bags and bottles in summer. Prising myself from between the back of my seat and the row in front to take the slightly less graceful version of Bambi’s first steps while my circulation kicks in again. I miss the knitting together of the crowd in the aisles, rows disgorging in twos and threes as politeness opens a space—quickly filled by those for whom the interval queues proved just slightly too long.
I miss the thrum and buzz of being reunited in the lobby, of last minute programme sales, of cast recordings and logo T-shirts passed from hand to hand across wooden counters carved out of time. I miss the conversations of favourite parts, of a hundred mouths simultaneously sharing fresh memories with their party as they make for the paired doors—“no, Margery, I’m quite certain it’s this way”. I miss the excitement of people pouring out onto busy streets, of the sounds of traffic and muffled laughter. I miss the hunt for taxis or the hurry for restaurant tables. I miss the walk along bustling pavements, ears ringing and thoughts alive with the spark of all that happened since we last saw the sky.
I miss the theatre, as I’ve missed so many other things during the last year. And, one day, I look forward to doing it all again.
Working from home diary, day two
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Thursday, 19th March 2020
The CD player has seen its first use in months. I imagine it digitally—if somewhat outdatedly—flipping the bird at the Amazon Echo that sits on the sideboard next to it; the latter normally the go-to source of music in recent years, and one of several dotted around the house. The soundtrack for the day is anything from the small pile of CDs I've bought over the last six months but haven't listened to. I know it's not great for the industry, but I mostly stopped buying CDs a while ago due in part to the amount of space my already ample collection takes up, and the fact that I've had a Spotify subscription for a long time now and—despite hating myself for admitting it—it's so much more convenient. The few albums I buy are out of a sense of loyalty to the bands themselves and my love of completionism. Those bands I've had a special connection with for years will always have space on a shelf, irrespective of the device I end up listening to them on. It's those bands that keep me company today.
For the first part of my day, the cats are frequent visitors. Used to having the house to themselves, they take turns at entering the room to see if I'm still there. Satisfied that I am, and unsatisfied that there is no food, by mid-morning, they've disappeared upstairs to sleep off whatever it is cats feel the need to. The older of the two would sleep all day given the chance. His only interests in the waking world are either edible or potentially warm enough to sleep on later. Today, the clunk of the CD auto-changer also draws his attention, but even that rare delight isn't enough to keep his eyes open long. Soon, he disappears upstairs, and I only know that he wakes because of the wail he emits when the younger of the two—who is less inclined towards sleep and more inclined towards mischief—decides to jump on his head. After the proceeding altercation, they settle down and I don't see them again until they're hungry.
I'm left alone to stare at a laptop screen. The laptop itself is a reasonable spec, and the battery life alone puts both cats to shame. If anything lets it down, it's the keyboard. It's one of those with far too many keys for a laptop, forcing it to be slightly more off-centre than is practical. As someone who touch-types out of habit, it's taking a while to get used to the new hand position, and I regularly find myself trying to remember what the words on-screen should have been had my fingers been about half a centimetre to the left. The function key is also in entirely the wrong place. It sits where one of the control keys should be, in the bottom left. Several laptops do this, though few so obtrusively. This one regularly replaces any large blocks of text I'm trying to copy with the letter C and has inserted the letter S after far too many important code changes that I would have preferred saved to the hard drive instead. Both are often followed by number of Zs before I realise my mistake. My biggest gripe with it, however, is what I have taken to calling the 'sometimes space bar'. Many a sentence has come out looking like I dictated it after drinking eight gallons of coffee.
The work itself is slow at first. I thrive in an environment with a team around me. Working alone is much more sedentary. It doesn't help, that my current workload is minimal. Despite being involved in several large projects, almost all of them are waiting for input from others. When they eventually come my way, I half expect to be buried by them all at once in an avalanche of code, documentation and emails. Until then, I'm finding work to do from long-cold email threads and making up the rest as I go.
It's not until mid-morning that things pick up. Thanks to a brief flurry of emails, I end up with some research to do. It's not taxing, but it beats the make-work that failed to keep me entertained yesterday. A typical day in the office is broken up by meetings, phone calls, emails and desk visits from people that need something from me. The rest of the time is spent writing Word documents, updating spreadsheets and—once in a blue moon—trying to remember how to do some of that 'development' stuff my job title suggests I'm supposed to do. I end up passing a lot of the real work on to other people, which is apparently the thing you do as you get more senior. I'm convinced that, if I ever become a high-level manager, I'll have had so little experience of doing any actual work in the years prior that I won't really understand what the people I manage do. It's a troubling thought, but one that answers a great many questions about some of my previous employers.
Being at home is very different to being at work. My only distractions tend to have fur or deliver post. While I'm busy, this is fine, though I worry about the intermittent periods of downtime when that flurry of emails doesn't arrive. Distractions can be beneficial. On those quiet occasions, they break up the day into manageable chunks that keep us sane. On the busier ones, they stop you losing yourself in the work and getting bogged down in it. I'd be lying if I said the risk of there being fewer of them didn't concern me. We're on day two and until this new task came in, the only thing that's stopped me knowing exactly how many bricks are in the garage wall I can see through the window is the fact that, just occasionally, someone in my team sends me a message to say hi.
For now, I'll let the music keep me company. Through speakers long-neglected, those bands I love will visit me with songs, new and old, that keep my foot tapping away the seconds until I can log off and just be at home without the W word.
Working from home diary, day one
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Wednesday, 18th March 2020
It technically started yesterday. Some time around mid-morning, the management team emerged from their lair to tell us we were being sent home. Every day for the last couple of weeks, they've had meetings to discuss the progress of the virus that has crept its way across the planet. Every day, they've assessed risks and made plans to mitigate them for the sake of the business and the people that work there. And every day, we've slunk ever closer to working indefinitely from home.
Home, for me, is now a four-bedroom detached thing on the southern edge of Leamington Spa. It's a beautiful building, and, since moving in six months ago, I've looked forward to returning to it at the end of each busy day at work. Yesterday, however, it all felt somehow different. For one thing, we were to leave at lunchtime, which always feels like the strangest time to be travelling anywhere. There's a wrongness to being in a place you frequent every day at a time you're not usually there. The sun casts different shadows, and the faces that pass are bereft of the smiles and nods bred of familiarity. For another, we were told we'd be 'working from home' for the foreseeable future; a prospect that has never excited me as much as it does others. It's a novelty to some, I suppose: a benefit or perk. To me it smacks of isolation. In this, I knew I'd be going home in the near certainty that the daytime interactions I'd grown so accustomed to were likely to be rare commodities for the foreseeable future.
This shouldn't be a problem for a developer. We're rarely counted among the most dazzling tones on the colour wheel that is the social spectrum. We're often quiet and subdued by nature, preferring the company of a select few, rather than launching ourselves into the crowd and hoping to be caught by as many hands as can reach us. Given the choice between the wildest of parties and a quiet room with a decent internet connection, the only reason you'll find us blurry-eyed the next day is because we've overdosed on screen time. And yet I hate working alone.
During the seven and a half years with my previous employer, the team I was in dwindled from a peak of six soon after I started to a very solitary me. For the last eighteen months, I worked alone in an office built for many more, slowly drowning under a workload intended for much the same. By the end of my time there I was a physical and emotional wreck; a mere shadow of the person I'd been only a couple of years earlier, drained of my confidence, my optimism and my mental health. In the (almost) two years I've been with my current employer, so much of that has been restored. I now work as part of a real team, full of real, live, interesting and inspiring people that make going to work as close to a joy as such a thing can be. On a daily basis, I'm surrounded by people from all manner of different countries and backgrounds, each bringing with them a wealth of personal and professional experience that, for the first time in many years, makes me feel like I belong. And, to top it all, I actually love my job.
But then there's the coronavirus.
We'd heard mention of it in the news for months. It seemed to spiral out of Wuhan before anybody had chance to get a handle on it. I'm as guilty as anyone of seeing the headlines with that strange and selfish sense of detachment that, however awful it is, it's not happening here. But then it was. It was slow at first. The first case arrived in Britain and seemed to fill every front page. By then, it was conquering great swathes of Europe and pushing further afield, but somehow it still wasn’t here. Day by day, the numbers crept up, first in handfuls, then dozens, and hundreds. Soon our government lost the will to count them, but still the figures climbed.
Now, everything has changed. I still find it difficult to process. I have all of the facts I'm capable of understanding, and have watched its progress with the same fascination as anyone else, but the surreal nature of what's happening still leaves me numb. To be told to stay home, to keep away from others, to not go anywhere—even to work—is something I'm more used to in science fiction than actual fact. If not for my partner, I might not see another soul for the duration. The streets are bare. That last train home was all but empty, and the further I travelled, the less I saw. Any hopes of a last flurry of excitement before I hid myself away were dashed a little more with every step.
It's a type of flu. Its symptoms are usually coughing and fever. Most people report feeling only mild effects; more of an irritation than anything. To those of a healthy disposition, and especially those middle-aged or younger, the risks are minimal. I'm not afraid of getting it for myself. I'm young enough and fit enough to be out of the major risk categories. I may not be training for the half marathon I did this time last year, but my current fitness fad of hitting twenty-thousand steps a day should see me through. But there are risks. It's those around me I worry about. Infected or otherwise, I don't want to be a carrier that puts others at risk. People are dying. The risks are real, and the measures taken to mitigate them are valid. I just can't quite rationalise the reality of them, and how quickly they took effect.
And so, here I am. Resigned to my situation, I've set up camp at home. I have a work laptop, a packet of biscuits and two cats that are amused by the novelty. As much as I love them, I hope they don't have to get used to it.