is, I know, Frida’s bouquet. At night she watches me make a fire, plump the sofa pillows, lie down and cover myself with a quilt. She climbs promptly onto my chest and gives my breast a thorough kneading. This always makes me think of Frida’s mother and wonder about her fate.

As the fire dances we listen to stories: Clarissa Pinkola Estés or Joseph Campbell; or music: Salif Keita, Youssou N’dour, Rachel Bagby. Bonnie Raitt, Tina Turner, or Al Green; Labi Siffre, Digable Planets, or Archie Roach; Phoebe Snow or Deep Forest; Sade. She likes music, except when it’s loud. Purring, she stretches her considerable length – she is quite a big cat – and before falling asleep she always reaches up, with calm purpose, to touch my face. ‘Watch those claws,’ I always say. When it is bedtime I pick her up, cuddle her, whisper what a sweet creature she is, how beautiful and wonderful, how lucky I am to have her in my life, and that I will love her always. I take her to her room, with its cat door for her après-midnight exitings, and gently place her on her bed. In the morning when I wake up, she is already outside, quietly sitting on the railing, eyes closed, meditating.

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