Category: Writing from home

As I completed my notes, I received a WhatsApp from my neighbour. Do I have some cat food for her cat? Just one cup. Thanks to our band of foster street cats, we have a plentiful supply. Chicken is the flavour of the month.

“You can have five cups, six cups,” I write. “Come on over.”

But in my endearing, childish little way, I don’t have the patience to wait. I grab two disposable cups, fill each with the cat food, and head along the wet pavement in my pyjamas and socked feet to Sigal’s house. The air is biting.

I approach the entrance and thump twice on the door, then gingerly open it. It’s just the end of November, but Sigal already has the heating on in her home.

“You didn’t have to come to me,” she says. “I would have come.”