I was a dreamy and introspective child. The world of my imagination was often much more colourful than the grey old London for the not so well off in the 50s and 60s.
On my long walk to and from primary school my wispy hair and scraped knees disappeared as I rode my elephant or winged Pegasus. Nobody likes a show off or whiny child, I was told. All things come to he (sic) who waits. And did I wait! I waited with patient expectation. What for, I had no idea - but something spectacular.
I wasn’t offered the part of Mary in the school nativity. That went to Rachel with the creamy skin and dark ringlets. And though I fervently wished and wished, I didn’t get the fairy off the giant Christmas tree at the rather grand party (Dad’s work?) I was lucky to attend.
I did get something though; a real live pet of my own. It was to be neither an elephant or a pegasus, but a rather ordinary tabby kitten. With clockwork regularity, I would pause outside the pet shop and peer in the window on my way home. My longing was so palpable that the owner couldn’t stand the tension…
Either that or she was sick of a kid getting in the way of paying customers! And so I was to rush home cradling Tiny Tim in my school blazer. My mother was - quite reasonably - outraged. I’m sure I promised the earth, sun and stars and somehow she never got round to taking Tiny Tim back to the shop as she threatened.
Tim was not just an aloof cat, he was fierce and wild, playing an important role in waking me up from the torpor of having four much older sisters or in other words, five mothers, to set the rules and expected standards of behaviour.
He became the bane of my mother’s life and drove many family guests close to an early grave. As the door from the family dining room to the hallway was opened, Tim darted past legs and burst out of the door and up the adjoining stairs, where he proceeded to claw at the hair of passing heads now on the same level.
But with me he was a benign and encouraging mentor. The first of many to whom I will be forever grateful.