A piece of empty, barren ground overgrown and patched with nettles, broken bricks and sunflowers. This is where they come. Stepping deftly from the shadows they nudge the grass aside and find a place – Manxies, Marmalades, and haughty Siamese, rag eared warriors and plump eunuchs, queens and catlings hissing, spitting, rowling till peace is made and boundaries agreed. Then one by one they settle, preen, consider solemnly through yawns, the flicking of an ear – the language of cats is ancient – little said but much intended. Pollen glitters on their fur like gold dust. By sunset they have gone, returned along the paths of beaten grass to milk in saucers, meat from tins - the clumsy, awkward love of human kind.