I love cats. The fluffier the better. And I want a cat. There are two breeds of cat in Cairo: street cats and flat cats. The poor somewhat crusty street cats live in the wilderness of street life. Dusty feline paws tip toe around corners and between car tyres, ever watchful for the enemy. Cautiously checking for threats before progressing along a wall or across a street, tail down, less conspicuous, they hunt their next meal. Dumpster diving was invented by these urchins. Nothing is left over and little kitty bellies are satisfied. After a quick semi-clean, the street prowler climbs to a position of safety, a warm car roof, and takes its nap. Territories are marked by gangs and neighbourhoods by coat colours. White and ginger is this area of The Hood, the next is tortoise shell, ginger and white. Distant cousins I think.

Flat cats are an entirely different breed. Pampered, combed, coiffed on occasions and tubby, these members of the feline brigade never set their soft paws outside. In fact, they could not think of anything more horrifying, darling. They come from a long line of blue blooded feline ancestry who enjoyed the same king-like status in their abodes. Food is available upon demand, litter trays are cleaned by one of the staff and naps are taken whenever and wherever desired. This privileged existence can be lonely at times, so beautiful mates of similar heritage are found to carry on the family line.

It is one of these cats I want. Actually, I don’t want a cat, I want a kitten. Mr S (read Super-No-Sayer-on-the-cat-issue) is not keen. He is a little concerned that when he is away on business I might replace him next to me in the bed with the cat. This is not exactly true, as I envisage the cat sleeping in the bed whether he is in it or not. This sends him into fits of nervous laughter saying, “No way. No bloody (said in a cute French accent) way!” He does not yet realise that a house is not a home without a little fluffy wuffy.

I also want a dog. Well, a puppy. This Mr S is a little warmer to. As long as we don’t live in Egypt. Usually extremely logical, Mr S has lost me a bit here. Does that mean no pets for the next three years? This could prove problematic. I have visions of little fluffy and little puppy growing up together to be good friends over the coming years. There are few things nicer (but yes, there are some of course) than having a purring fluffy on your knee, or a friendly dog to play with.

This has been my thinking. Until today. The temperature struck (an outrageously for June) 39C in the shade on the balcony - at 5pm. It was 32C inside with the ACs going full blast. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to a little fluffy wuffy to have to sport a skinheed style for summer, just to keep cool.