I’ll never forget
the taxi driver who, after apparently enjoying a half hour
conversation with me (and
taking half the fee I had earned singing in
the West End all evening in an extortionate fare back to Hackney),
snidely enquired as to how
many cats I had.
He hit me with it
as I was standing by his window shuffling money to give him. It
was a deliberate put-down, and it did what it was
designed to do; it chagrined me, and shut me up. In that instant, I realised that the
interesting conversation I’d thought I had been having with this
chap had all been a farce. He’d been humouring me. Waiting to pick
his moment to slap me down. I’d been enjoying
chatting and winding down after a show.
He’d been judging me and marking
me down as an unacceptable female.
In
that instant, I realised that on the comedown from the gig (and any performer will tell you that can take hours), I had
probably talked too much. For
a woman anyway. Women aren’t supposed to talk too much
about too many things. I had knowledge of and an opinion on a variety of topics from
politics to plants. I
just had to be single. I must have cats.
Possibly 7 or more of them. Despite the slick cocktail dress, my flat probably stank of cat piss.
He was a dog man.
I am a cat woman.
I mean that literally.
I believe that
half the human race are cat people, and
half are dog people. I’m not
referring just to furry beast preference.
What I mean is
that half the world behave like
cats, and the other half dog their way
through life.
We all know that
enthusiastic person who’s up with the lark, always busy, always up for fun
times, park, picnics, games, sports, going out. They like cuddling on the
sofa with you too, and kissing and holding hands, and big suffocating bear hugs
when they see you, and they get quite hurt if you wriggle within
their clutches. They’ll get all pouty if you don’t return their emails or their ‘phone calls
straightaway too.
Then there are
people who are perfectly happy to see you when they see you, but they get on
with their lives just fine
when you’re not there.
They’ll give great
advice if you’re worried about stuff. They’ll take you to the
doctor if you need a ride, and they’re great company on the rare
occasions they find the time to see you, but the rest of the time,
you can be forgiven for wondering if they’ve died.
It’s nothing
personal.
Any more than it is
with cats.
Thing is, though,
what sneering men like my cab driver
don’t seem to realise is that
a cat woman - whether or not she actually rooms with a cat, is very possibly a woman who isn’t going to be a clinging
vine. She won’t expect him until she sees him coming, and she won’t
hang on to his coat tails when he wants to leave. A cat woman isn’t likely to be needy. She may love, but she’ll
give space, too.
Men who make ‘cat lady’ jibes inevitably also seem to like to bang on about their damned independence. They fight marriage and babies and all the things they think women want from them, but they run a mile from women who choose companionship with a species of animal that one actually has to be pretty adjusted to live with.
What they fail to realise is that a woman who can go without docility, devotion, face-licking, jumping up, and someone trotting after her, probably won’t need it from them, either.
Maybe that’s the
problem though. Maybe that’s actually what men who sneer and jeer at women who love and behave like cats are actually worried about. That they won’t be needed. That if a woman loves, but doesn’t need them, that
she might stray, and move on to not needing someone else.
For my part, I have to admit that it’s
a complete and utter deal breaker if a man says he “hates” cats.
It concerns me when someone cannot appreciate an independent creature
that doesn’t bolster their ego and do what they want it to do.
As far as I am concerned, it bodes ill
for their expectations of me, and I worry that I am only going to let
them down and disappoint them.
 |
| "Unhand me, woman..." Me and Tigs, Regent's Park, c.1982 (Pic: Gerald Blake) |
“So ‘ow many
cats you got, then?” (arf arf).
Pause.
“Actually none
right now. £32.50 wasn’t it? Here you go.”
“Wot, no tip...?”
Not unless you sit
up and beg for it, Rover…
Night night.
© Emmeline
Wyndham - 2018
