So I’m living abroad, right? France. And I’m getting pretty homesick. I long to converse in my own uncomplicated language of English. See, in order to speak French properly, your tongue has to have spent two years at drama school.
I’ve also had enough of the French cafe’s which lost their "quaintness" about two weeks after I arrived.
Now I longed to walk into a real pub where to ask for a glass of Bordeaux would get me immediately barred. Above all, perhaps I just wanted to escape French television.
The point I’m really trying to make is, well, the only thing stopping me from heading home
immediately, is this girl, Françoise. See, I had made the enjoyable mistake of getting to know her and now that enjoyable mistake had lasted two years. We were, you could say, close.
Like I said though, the homesickness was getting worse and worse every day. Nothing I could do about it.
Finally it came to the stage where I had to make a decision. Should I stay in France or head back to the city where I was born? Glasgow. The Dortmund of the north. Sure I knew it had it’s faults but after five years away, I could only see the city streets and city people with great affection.So yes, I decided, it was time to go home...
The difficult thing would be telling Françoise.
So one afternoon I invited her round to the flat. I sat her down next to me
on the settee and commenced a suitably dramatic and emotional speech. That the lure of the glens(Glenfiddoch, Glenmorangie?) was too strong...About how sooner or later we all return to whence we came. Like the salmon returning back upstream, Sooner or later........ I repeated, my voice cracking...we all return home For myself, that time was now...
I bowed my head. My girlfriend stood up and walked over to the window. The late afternoon sun lit up her face. I could see there were tears forming in her eyes. Little rainbow coloured dots of water between her dark eyelashes.
She continued to stand there, her arms crossed, looking out across the patchwork of rooftops. I noticed again with wonder how her long auburn hair swirled all the way down her back to her waist. Standing there, biting her quivering bottom lip, I had to admit she looked beautifully dramatic. Dramatically beautiful. Once again, I wondered if I was doing the right thing.
Should I leave someone so beautiful? A country so beautiful? Had I so easily forgotten how good life was here? Could I meet someone called Françoise in Govan? Was it worth throwing away this cultural existance for a Partick Thistle season ticket?
It wasn’t too late. Perhaps I had spoken too soon. I could just tell Françoise I was confused. I didn’t know what I was saying. It was a moment of weakness, I had changed my.. .Françoise turned towards me and nodded. Wiping away a tear, she said she understood. Trying a smile for my benefit, she said she always knew I would leave one day. I went over and held her in my arms, myself quite emotional, disappointed she accepted my decision so easily.
So I start arranging things. Phoning the electric, phone company etc. Everything’s going according to plan. Then one night I’m sitting watching television. Yet another excruciating French variety show, complete with crooning bow-tied, bow-haired compere, infuriatingly cute children, and comedy spots involving balloons.
Just then, yes, just then as a mime artist is "walking against wind", the doorbell rings. I open it and see Françoise standing there with a big smile on her face.
"Salut!"
She’s holding a little cardboard box. "Cadeaux!" she says. Oh right I say. So we go into the sitting room and she places the little box on the floor. She opens the lid and a tiny ball of fluff, pops its head out. It looks around, sees me and immediately pops its head back in the box.
"It’s shy" says Françoise "What’s shy?" I respond. Wondering what kind of puppet I had just seen.
She explains to me it’s a kitten. She then explains to me a kitten is a small cat. So naturally I say to her "What the heck do I want with a small cat? I’m leaving the country at the end of the month".
She says it’s just for tonight. Until she finds someone else to look after it. They were going to shoot the poor thing, she explains. Shoot? It has nowhere to go. And? Apparently I have some moral obligation. Besides she says, It’s just for one night. One night I agree. Two at the most, I think I hear her mumble as she walks out the door.
Waking up the next morning, I look down and see a round furry lump on my chest. Naturally I scream. I vow never to smoke another cigarette in my life. Then I remembered the night before, girlfriend....kitten. Phew. Immediately I lit up a cigarette. I looked down again at the furry ball. It’s little chest moving up and down in rhythm with my own.
I have to say it looked kinda cute. It was sleeping with its arms stretched out on either side of my chest. As if it was cuddling me. No joke. I patted it’s little head thing. It let out a contented tired sigh. "Don’t get too comfy, I said, "I mean I don’t know how to put this little un’ but as the song goes, "Start spreading the news, you’re leaving today"’ It didn’t seem to notice. So I let it sleep a little longer.
During the day I tried phoning Françoise. No success. After work I entered the house as usual and to my surprise the little cat had seemed to gain some confidence. It warmly greeted my arrival as if I had been away for the last year. I felt pretty chuffed. Nobody had ever greeted my arrival with such enthusiasm. For a couple of minutes I felt popular.
So naturally I rewarded the kitten with a little saucer of milk and some quite expensive (if I do say so myself) cold meat I had in the fridge. It chomped away happy as Larry. You know Larry. Whilst continuing to try and contact Françoise I watched television and frankly it didn’t seem that bad. Maybe because for most of the time my attention was taken up with the playful fluffy ball. I didn’t realise you could have so much fun with just a piece of string and a vivid imagination.
Afterwards, I let the little cat (kitten, as we in the know, say) sleep in my lap. It always seemed to be smiling. It wouldn’t leave my side. When I went to the toilet, it sat outside waiting for my return. ‘Nearly finished wee yin‘ I would shout. When I went anywhere it would trot happily by my side. I mean there was no way I was going to keep the little chap but for an animal I had to admit he certainly was a likable one.
Over the next few days I still couldn’t get in touch with my girlfriend. Finally on the following Sunday, five days after she had disappeared. she reappeared at my door. I opened it with, as always, the little cat trotting by my side. My girlfriend immediately ignored me and greeted the cat.
Naturally my first words were where have you been? She didn’t answer. Instead, she told me she had found someone she could take the kitten to. The little cat (kitten) looked at me with those green eyes as my girlfriend stroked its head. Françoise seemed incredibly pleased with herself. It wasn’t her first choice she said. The guy was a bit of a drinker and frankly had trouble looking after himself, but what else could she do?
So anyway, you know what I’m going to say. I took the cat from her arms and told her that the little cat could stay with me until someone more suitable was found. Delighted my girlfriend threw her arms around me and gave me a long passionate kiss. Not in front of the kitten I said.
Time passed. It grew closer to the day when I decided to leave. And with every day that passed I grew closer to the little cat. Now it was me who was following him around. I named him Sporran. And actually France seemed to be an easier country to live in because of Sporran.
So maybe I thought, I was a bit hasty in my decision to return home. I had work, a place to stay and someone who loved me. I even had a girlfriend. So I decided to stay a little longer. I took back my notice from work, informed the landlord, re-ordered my daily baguette. And so yet again time passed. And things continued to be just fine.
In short, I ended up staying in France for another two years. Although the relationship with my girlfriend came to an end. Turns out there was trois in the relationship long before Sporran arrived.
Time passed. One afternoon, I was lying on my bed reading a book. As usual Sporran was lying next to me, sitting happily doing nothing. Now and then Sporran would look past me though into the middle distance, a contented look on his face. Then he seemed to follow whatever it was he saw, around the room. As if he was following some object. I would keep looking behind me but of course there was nothing there. So I know it sounds daft, I mean, well, I can‘t really explain but at that moment this thought came into my head. Cats can see angels, I thought. Cats can see angels. Silly I know, but that’s what I thought.
The point is though, it was around that time I realized that even with Sporran I was still homesick. I wanted to live back in Scotland. Could Sporran go home with me? Could he learn the language? At that time there was no Pet Passports and quarantine wasn’t really a viable option. So the answer had to be no.
Nevertheless, I had had my fill of France. Could I leave Sporran? Should I stay in another country because of a cat? Even if that cat wasn’t just an ordinary cat but a wonderful cat, a special cat, like Sporran? Over time we had become so close. And yet....Whatever, the choice was made for me. Soon after I lost my job. Times became hard. I was having trouble paying my rent. Although I had worked almost constantly for four years, French bureaucracy managed to make getting unemployment money extremely difficult. In short the decision was made for me. I just wanted to do a salmon. Go home.
I placed an ad in the Pets page of the local paper. Good home wanted for special cat Eventually a family phoned. On the Tuesday the father came to see me for an interview. As much as I tried I couldn‘t find any reason to refuse him ownership. The family seemed perfect. I knew Sporran couldn’t have a better home. While Sporran looked on, suspiciously I shook the man’s hand. He said he would pick Sporran up the following Saturday.
The last few days I spent with Sporran were a bit of a blur. As much as I tried I couldn’t stop crying. I mean, I don’t consider myself the sentimental type. Apart from the odd time I drink too much and get emotionally drunk or the time that Laura’s big sister went blind in The little House on the Prairie, I‘ve always managed to keep my feelings under control. In true British fashion, I’ve always felt emotion was something to be ashamed of. However during those last few days I couldn’t help but be distraught.
It didn’t help that Sporran seemed only too aware himself, of what was happening. I wondered how many senses a cat was born with. He wouldn’t eat. He would just sit on the edge of the table, or chair or bed, or toilet and stare at me.
It was as if he was trying to keep an image of me in his mind for when I wouldn’t be there. It was all I could do to stare back. Doing the same. Both of us forlornly looking into each other’s eyes, whilst on the television some guy would be balancing plates on a stick.
I kept repeating how I had no choice, trying to convince myself. It didn’t make any difference. The usually full of energy, full of life, once happy cat, was now listless, sitting for hours in one place, even more depressed than I was.
Eventually the Saturday came when I had to give Sporran away. The father and mother came to the door with their two excited children by their sides. Unreasonably, I hated them. Hated everything. I couldn’t speak. Just nodded their arrival. Manly pride made me try to put on a brave face. I kept trying to think of something else. It wasn’t happening. It was no use though. The wails of Cesarine in his basket were like daggers into my soul. It’s just a cat, I kept saying, just a cat. My heart told me though that nothing could have been further from the truth.
When it came to it I just handed Sporran over in his basket listening to his long crying meows and shut the door. I felt physically sick. Dizzy. I went to bed and cried.
Days passed. I occupied my mind with the thought of going home. Often, to try and cheer myself up, I thought of Sporran settling into his new home. Eventually he would forget about me I said. Trying to rid myself of the grief and guilt which filled my whole body. I couldn’t help hoping, though, that Sporran would remember me in some far off part of his brain. As I would always remember him.
So that’s that. There’s no real point to this story. I guess. I just wanted to remember Sporran for a while. I’m back home in Glasgow now. Wondering why I ever left France. I miss the place. I miss French television. But most of all I miss Sporran. I guess I could never get close to another animal like I did with Sporran. Perhaps I’m just too vulnerable.
It’s the same with people of course. Not just me. Sometimes you can’t help but become close to someone.
For instance, three months after I came back to Glasgow I met the most wonderful girl in the world. From the moment I saw her I knew she was the one. I know, I know, but it’s true. I can’t explain it. Well, maybe,...maybe when you fall in love you can see things no-one else can see. Maybe, the way cat’s can see angels. Maybe, the way Sporran could see angels. Maybe,...maybe you know what I mean.