Second week of cat-sitting. Because staying in the ancestral pile with nothing but a cat for company and visiting the hospital to see my mother for diversion would drive me insane with boredom, I have been seeing people. This is something of a new turn of events. “So what do you get up to in Brighton?” asked one of the people I saw, and I was utterly stumped for an answer.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Potter around, I suppose.”
But here it’s all go, one mad giddy social helter-skelter. Over the weekend I saw Z—, whom I hadn’t seen for years, and who did a little happy dance as I got out of the lift. Who does not like being greeted with a happy dance? She then showered me with presents, my favourite perhaps being a very classy little Top Cat badge that now adorns the left lapel of my jacket.
I then saw J— and that was rather more melancholy, as his girlfriend of 17 years has left him and he is about to be evicted from his flat. For my part I too was gutted, for I was very fond of his girlfriend indeed, and of his flat, which is very Hove-l-ly but in a good way.
“Do you want a piano?” he asked me. I’d love one but the Hove-l is itself not much larger than a piano and even if I could get it up the stairs, I don’t think the neighbours would be wild about hearing my room-clearing recital of “Let It Be” – the only song I can play.
A couple of days later I was invited round to my friend K—’s; her children would also be there, and that pleased me mightily, for K—’s children are super-brainy. What is more, the elder one is training to be a detective with the Met.
“Would you like to see my warrant card?” she asked.
“Oh God, yes,” I replied.
She showed me what it would be like to be arrested.
“Nicholas Lezard,” she said, flashing me her warrant card, “I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a controlled substance in contravention of the [Whatever It Is Act].” Good Lord, I thought, how did she know? (Just kidding.) She then did the same with her brother and that was a sight to behold, for he is 6ft 4in and she is at least a foot shorter than him.
After dinner her mother gave her a lift back to her place, and I was invited to have a little look round, for it is an eight-bedroom mansion in Highgate that was bought in 1960 for three shillings and sixpence and is now around the £4m mark. But it, too, is very Hove-l-ly and I thoroughly approved. In the living room was a baby grand piano.
“We’re trying to get rid of this,” said K—’s daughter. “Do you want a piano?”
Bloody hell, I thought, I’ve now been offered two pianos in as many days. What are the odds? As it happens, the ancestral pile has a piano and as the place is semi-detached I have been playing “Let It Be” like Paul McCartney if he had dementia and had forgotten most of the notes and lost three fingers on his left hand.
And, talking of dementia, there is always my mother to see. She is normally on the ball, but staying in hospital doesn’t do anyone’s mental health any good and her conversation tends to go around the same tight circular track. “When am I going home?” she asks, and “How is my pussy cat?” The answers to these are: “We don’t know yet,” and “Fine, and she told me to say hello.” (I maligned the cat in my first paragraph. Having a cat around is a pretty good way to stave off tedium and isolation. The cat is very much in favour of me and I have relaxed my mother’s policy of locking the cat flap after dusk. She can now roam freely and hunt whenever she wants. The cat, that is, not my mother.)
She (my mother, not the cat) asks a nurse why she can’t go home.
“Because you can’t walk without being supported by two people,” he says.
“My son can stay and look after me,” she says. “He doesn’t have to go to an office to work; he can write at my place.”
I think of looking after my mother and I shudder. Reader, do not think me callous. She is a wonderful person in many respects, but really it’s better if you’re not related to her.
“I have to go back to Brighton to water my plants,” I say. I have to repeat this a few times more than normal, first because she is deaf and then a few more times because she still can’t believe her ears.
“I HAVE TO GET BACK TO BRIGHTON TO WATER MY PLANTS,” I say, feeling a little foolish. But it is true: I have become a parent to plants, and I have my responsibilities to consider.
“What about my pussy cat?” she asks. I tell her my brother will look after her over the weekend; the cat’s welfare is paramount.
“Who do you love more,” she asks, “your mother, or the cat?” My brother and I look at each other awkwardly. We both really, really like cats.
Does anyone want a piano?
[Further reading: The art of writing about India]
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This article appears in the 16 Oct 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Emperor