joke on me. Ever since I was a child I have needed the peace and quiet of morning. Everyone in my life, since I became an adult, has respected this. No one calls me, no one dares intrude for any reason, before noon. Frida made herself the exception. She was an exceedingly garrulous cat. She set out every morning to tell me the latest instalment of her sad, heartrending tale, six or seven lives long, and she chatted steadily for an hour or so. When I was thoroughly rattled, she stopped, went upstairs, and took a nap. This was our entirely inauspicious beginning.

Being an activist means I travel, a lot. Sometimes to other cities and countries, but also between my city and country homes. I took to carrying Frida, when I could catch her, with me. I have memories of careening around mountain curves with Frida, terrified, stuck to my neck. I was unable to endure the piteous cries she emitted when I secured her in a cage. When not stuck to my neck or in my hair, she sought safety underneath the brake pedal. I eventually resolved to leave her in the country – she hid when she saw me packing to return to the city. I did this reluctantly, acknowledging defeat. I asked M, the caretaker, to make sure she had water, food, and surrogate affection. Time passed. Sometimes I would be away for a month or more. When I returned, Frida would have taken up at a neighbour’s house. After a few days, she’d return. Distant and cool. I would struggle to renew our bond, ­beating myself

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