An incredibly sad start to Saturday.
I left the flat on time, all set for the Brockwell Park Run.
Out of the corner of my eye I clocked that a beer box had been left outside the flat.
Nice, I thought. Someone has delivered me some BOOZE.
I then saw a postcard attached to the box. I didn't get past the first few words as I suddenly saw the tail poking out of one end of the box.
Inside was a dead cat
Time was counting down to the Park Run start. I was flustered. I didn't know what to do, except to run.
I cycled off to Brockwell, and then remembered very late last night the buzzer for the flat being pressed.
We never answer.
The note attached to the beer box was incredibly understanding. It explained how a black cab had hit the cat outside our flat at midnight.
"We were with the cat through until the end. It was a very peaceful death."
There was no name or contact number. I'm not sure if it was the cabbie or a passing Samaritan.
Either way I was left with someone else's dead cat. The thought of another person trying to track me down to tell me about my mad cat coming to a similar end was heartbreaking.
And so I pressed on with my run.
I actually had a very clear head, both physically and mentally.
No booze the night before, plus a deliberate decision to block the cat out.
Madam Pacemaker was on fine form. We both legged it around the first lap. The halfway split came back as 11:05. My PB stands at 22:09.
The race was on...
I managed BMX Hill with Madam Pacemaker, and thought yeah, this is it.
And then came Cressingham Hill.
This is never normally a problem for me. But I felt the yoghurt and the apple from an hour earlier start to rumble.
I limped around the final quarter of the circuit dispirited.
The cat was still there on my mind. I alerted Anna about it. She decided to leave the box outside for the morning, to see if anyone would come looking for the cat.
What a horrid, horrid thing to find
I tried to stick to my routine.
A ten length dash of Lake Brockwell, some brief Icicle conversation, and then we had an appointment with our painting and decorate fella for a quote.
But yeah. Needs to be done.
Meanwhile, the cat was still sitting not so pretty.
I phoned up the Stockwell vet, only to find that they weren't open until 2pm.
I pressed on with my day.
I caught the tube with Anna over to the City, as she was heading back to over there.
I got off at Bank and joined up with the Anti Austerity march.
It was bloody HUGE.
The Labour party leaflets being handed out raised a smile. The real fun to be had though was with the Class War.
Why march all the way to bloody Westminster when the real problem lies within the belly of the beast in the Square Mile?
I hung around for half an hour or so with the Red and Black bloc, and then walked over to Westminster, only really as it was en route back home.
I didn't hang around in Parliament Square. Too many bloody well-meaning speeches that I have heard once too often over the past three decades.
Where was the call for action?
Back over with Class War in the City.
I kept on walking, through the backstreets of Pimlico, and then I crossed the Old Father at Vauxhall.
It was now 3pm and... the vet was open.
How incredibly understanding the Stockwell vet was. The poor cat wasn't microchipped. We had no way of telling who was the owner.
The vet very kindly offered to to take the cat to the pet crematorium.
This seemed like the best thing to do.
I couldn't but help think though that somewhere in Sunny Stockwell, someone is putting out a bowl of pet food hoping that their friend will return.
A bit of photo editing of the Anti Austerity March, and then I cycled back off to Brixton.
I had arranged to meet ahem some folk about a possible Brixton Buzz story.
Well I never.
It started to piss it down once our business was done. I was on the right side of town for Pop Brixton.
I have deliberately decided to stay away until the hype dies down. The last thing it needs is some loud mouth blogger playing to the online gallery.
I got as far as the entrance though and...
I won't be returning.
I cycled back to Sunny Stockwell.
Saturday evening was spent editing school content, and thinking about dead cats