A cat's life

The day after your birthday is always a bit of a downer, and when you also have to say goodbye to one of your best friends too…well, you can mark that down in your diary with a massive colon + left hand bracket. Put it in 1000pt font in fact.

That was what happened today, as our beloved eldest cat Seth finally had to admit defeat against illness. For you non-animal lovers, you might as well log off now, as I come to praise our furry friend in this blog post.

Cats have risen to prominence on the internet over the last few years. Amusing LOL-captions and the ability to play keyboards are great. But Seth didn’t need that – because he was too busy cuddling and spreading love.

This was a cat who we met over four years ago, when he was picked up by the RSPCA wandering the streets with a dodgy hip and nasty skin complaint on his back. No-one knew where he had come from, but he knew where he wanted to be. His first act was to bound up to me, climb on my shoulder, and grab hold for dear life - and from then on he was family.

Given the fact he had been on his own he could have been forgiven for dis-trusting humans, but he clearly had a better nature than most of us ever could. From day one he wanted to cuddle and to be cuddled. He would follow you from room to room, rarely savaging carpets or sofas when he could spend his energy climbing up higher so he could get you to rub his head, chin, back or belly.

When he was happy, you could hear it. Seth had something in his throat that gently rasped – the happier he was, the more he rasped and coo-ed, sounding like a high-pitched pigeon (ask anyone who met him) – when you heard that noise, you knew he was totally happy.

And he was happy a lot. Whether it was hiding behind the hot water tank, stealing slices of ham bigger than his own head, levering doors open with his paw, grasping a catnip-filled banana, or just meeting new people, he purred like his life depended on it. And if you ever worried he would miss you if you were away, you could be sure it’d be worth it for when you came back – as he charged towards you on a one-cat mission of headbutting/headrubs.

And all this with a myriad of illnesses. A wonky hip that sometimes meant he could hardly move one of his legs. A skin complaint that brought dozens of little scabs to his back and neck. Asthma (yes, cats get Asthma – but no little blue inhaler) that saw him rushed to the emergency vets. A thyroid operation that would have finished many cats off.

It was kidney disease that eventually did for him, but even up to his last day he didn’t complain – he took the myriad tablets and the prescription food, he enjoyed his ‘spa’ days when he was given fluid and attention by some of the nicest vets you could meet, and even when it turned out he was about five years older than we first thought he just shrugged it off. And then did a poo in one of my slippers.

You can think a lot about the day a friend dies, but it’s better to remember the many more days that they lived, and we’ll be doing that a lot from today, and probably forever. There are too many to talk about here – the night he stayed out and how we drove around the estate at 3am trying to find him only for him to arrive home at 6am and give us a row for not letting him in earlier; or the day we had a visit from the RSPCA to check we were nice people to get another cat – to which Seth walked into the room with the inspector, looked at her, and immediately just rolled around on his back to say how much he loved living with us; or when a supposedly old and fragile cat was spotted about a mile from his home climbing up a sheer rock face like a veteran Sherpa.

For all those moments, and thousands more, we shall always be grateful - even if we’re sad along with it.

So, if you’ve made it this far, thank you. And if you want to do something in honour of our furry friend, stick your loose change in an RSPCA collection tin and make sure that the other Seths out there get picked up, re-homed, and spread the love.

Seth Colman, thank you for everything.

A cut above

I had my 'holiday haircut' today. That's the 'oh my god, we're going on holiday tomorrow and I currently look like a hobbit' haircut. That means I have to get it cut, or the holiday photos will look like I was only stopping off somewhere nice on the way to Mordor.

Sitting in the chair today I thought two things. Firstly, I'm going quite grey now. Maybe I'll look old and distinguished when it finally takes full hold. Sadly, I'll probably look like Philip Schofield - who now has hair so strange a white that I'm pretty sure is just a computer effect, and he wears a green swimming cap for them to add it on in post-production.

The second thing I thought was about the various places and people who I've let loose on my hair. Here's (hairs) who I can (comb) remember:

- Age 8-10ish - Joe Westlake. A barber shop above a Butchers - never sure that was a good combination, especially if it was one in the same chap. My brother would take me along.The highlight was the 'spray' that Joe Westlake would offer to you the end. A distinctly 'adult' perk, that made up for the booster cushion, it was a fine mist of something like brut, musk, and bacon (I may be guessing on the last one). Years later it turned out that Joe was, and always had been, a massive alcholic and was likely drunk doing our hair - maybe he'd been drinking the spray?

- Age 16ish - Robert and Ruth Hair Design - Despite the name, you were unlikely to get the squeaky voiced male proprietor or his oddly shaped business partner. My brother and I (yes, we were brothers in hair as well) would get ours cut by a girl who worked there called Anita. Thus began the joke of saying "Your hair is nice, that's Anita haircut than last time". Cue laughter for 28minutes and then a few hours on the Sega Megadrive.

- Age 17 - The New Yorker - Centre of Torquay. Run by Italian-American man, and his floppy haired son - who my chum Shaun christened 'Young Sir' as he spoke like a 15th century noblemen/knight. As a result, I couldn't stop laughing at that made up name if he ever did my hair, and once had to ask him to stop for fear of having my head sliced open due to giggles.

- Age 18ish - Baileys Barbershop - A barbers just round the corner of my student house in Coventry. Run by two men - one with teeth that he clearly took in and out regulary, sometimes replacing them at an almost jaunty angle. A housemate claimed I was going to the "Gay" Barbershop. I discovered the chaps were brothers, to which my housemate said. "Yes. Gay brothers.". That's my hair at the time on the right, pictured with Tom O'Connor. Don't ask.

- Age 19ish - Mad Italian Man - In Cheltenham one day. Needed haircut. Italian man spoke little English. Light trim became massive buzzcut. Had to wear a hat for about a month.

- Age 23ish - The Sportsman - Wolverhamptons premier hairdresser for footballers, all the Wolves players come here it claimed. To be honest, they didn't. It was just full of photos of Steve Bull, and that was it. Downstairs to get to it, you would descend to the basement and open a door to find the waiting room - fingers always crossed there was only one person waiting. I turned up once to find 19 people waiting for a haircut. What did I do? I waited. I'm British of course.

- Age 24ish - Hairport - Hairdressers at the Birmingham Midshires head office. Yes, a hairdressers at a former building society. Cheap, and the name always made me laugh - "The hair now departing from your head..."


- Age 26ish - Village Barber Shop - A Halifax establishment run mainly by 'women'. I say it like that, as I'm pretty sure one of them was just a man with breasts and a skirt. A lot of signet rings flashed by your ears as the scissors whirled by. Like a man being asked to land a plane in a disaster film, I just looked straight ahead and hoped for the best.

- Age 31ish - The Barber Shop - Startlingly original name eh? A small backroom behind a watch repair shop in Sowerby Bridge. No-nonsense old school haircuts from man who would say two things "Not working today?" and "She got you doing the chores?". Used to charge £4. 50 for a haircut, and therefore nearly always picked up a 12.5% tip through a fiver. Moved his prices up to £5.00 shortly afterwards, and ruined his margins.

- Age 36 ish - Smartcuts - Bradfords finest barbers. Well, the only one I've been to. The barbers don't speak English and look terrifed when I walk in, they smack your head around like you've gone there for 'being hit on the head' lessons, and there's an old man who just sits in the window and sleeps. Still, £5 for a holiday haircut - suits me a treat.

Blimey. I went on a bit there. Sorry. I'll leave the country for a bit as punishment.