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was the first time that we’d travelled any distance from the flat together since our visit to the RSPCA.
    I hadn’t let him out of the flat, apart from to do his business downstairs, because he was still on his antibiotics. So I stuck him in the same green, plastic recycling box I’d used a fortnight earlier to take him to the RSPCA. The weather was miserable so I took the lid and let it rest loosely on the box once we were out and about. He wasn’t much more comfortable in it that day than he was the first time I put him in it. He kept sticking his head out and watching the world go by.
    The Abbey Clinic is a small place, sandwiched between a newsagent and a medical centre on a parade of shops on Dalston Lane. We got there in plenty of time for his appointment and found the place packed. It was the usual, chaotic scene, with dogs tugging on their owners’ leashes and growling at the cats inside their smart carriers. Bob stood out like a sore thumb in his improvised carrier so was immediately a target for their aggression. Once again, there were several Staffies there with their Neanderthal-looking owners.
    Some cats would have bolted, I’m sure. But Bob wasn’t fazed at all. He seemed to have placed his trust in me.
    When my name was called out a young nurse in her twenties came out to meet us. She had some paperwork and led me into a room where she asked me what were obviously standard questions.
    ‘Once it’s been carried out, the operation can’t be reversed. So are you certain you don’t want to breed from Bob at some future date?’ she said.
    I just smiled and nodded.
    ‘Yeah, I’m quite certain,’ I said, rubbing Bob on the head.
    Her next question stumped me, however.
    ‘And how old is Bob?’ she smiled.
    ‘Ah. I really don’t know,’ I said, before briefly explaining his story.
    ‘Hmm, let’s take a look.’ She explained that the fact that he hadn’t been neutered was a good clue about his age.
    ‘Male and female cats tend to become sexually mature at around six months of age. If they are left “entire” after that they go through some distinct physical changes. For instance, toms get fuller in the face, particularly around the cheeks. They also develop thicker skins and generally become quite big, certainly bigger than those cats that have been neutered,’ she told me. ‘He’s not that big, so I’d guess that he’s maybe nine to ten months old,’ she said.
    As she passed me the release forms, she explained that there was a minor risk of complications but that it was a really tiny chance. ‘We will give him a thorough examination and maybe run a blood test before we go ahead with it,’ she said. ‘If there’s a problem we will contact you.’
    ‘OK,’ I said, looking slightly sheepish. I didn’t have a working mobile so they would have trouble contacting me.
    She then took me through the procedure itself. ‘The operation happens under general anaesthetic and is usually pretty straightforward. The testicles are removed through two small incisions made into the scrotal sacs.’
    ‘Ouch, Bob,’ I said giving him a playful ruffle.
    ‘If everything goes OK, you can come and collect Bob in six hours,’ she said, looking down at her watch. ‘So at around four thirty. Is that OK?’
    ‘Yeah, great,’ I nodded. ‘See you then.’
    After giving Bob a final cuddle, I headed back out into the overcast streets. There was rain brewing once more.
    I didn’t have time to head all the way into central London. By the time I’d set up and sung a few songs, it would be time to turn around again. So I decided to take my chances around the nearest railway station, Dalston Kingsland. It wasn’t the greatest pitch in the world, but it provided me with a few quid and a place to while away the hours as I waited for Bob. There was also a very friendly cobbler’s shop next to the station where I knew I would get shelter from the inevitable rain when it came.
    I tried to block Bob out of my