May 7

I forgot to mention that many years ago, during another mouse outbreak (Mousebreak?) we in the block voted that the most natural way ton deal with it would be to buy a house cat. A rescue cat was duly chosen and took up residence. The idea was that he would live in the common parts – the stairwell, to be exact – and that he would begin his new life as a rodent operative.

For some reason that now escapes me, someone named him Cashew and his new quarters were equipped for comfort and hygiene. We all enjoyed bumping into Cashew on his and our travels round the building and we all took him into our apartments from time to time so he could leave his scent behind to deter other visitors.

We grew to love our resident. His quarters on the third floor were extended downstairs to include a playground. His feeding rota grew ever more complex and we became mystified by the number of times he would be missing during the day when the appointed feeder turned up.

The mystery remained unsolved until the manager of a nearby hotel phoned to say that a black and white cat seemed to have discovered that their honeymoon suite was not always occupied and was to be found most afternoons curled up on the velvet counterpane of the super-King size bed.

It turned out that Cashew, having been invited into one of the apartments closest to the hotel, would climb out of their window, make his way into the hotel and scout around for the most comfortable accommodation, returning home for dinner or when he felt like a change of scene.

Cashew lived happily like this with all of us for several years – until one of our residents fell in love – with Cashew.

The cat’s disappearances grew longer and longer. Now he would be away for the whole weekend, then for a week at a time, then for a month. No, the hotel manager said, he wasn’t honeymooning this time, hadn’t been for ages.

Cashew had been catnapped by the handsomest man in the block, taken to live in his glitteringly white, minimalist apartment and fed on the tastiest of morsels.

None of us said anything as he retired from work and lay around admiring his paws. How could we insist he went back to the stairwell?

Remembering that Cashew had originally moved in to mouse-hunt, I texted his “owner” this week and asked if he could please walk Cashew around the building for a while to see whether he would spot any mice. “Oh no, sorry”, came the reply, “People would pet him and he might be a vector for the virus.” And, besides, I think he’s a bit past it now. He’s become very lazy”.

Instead of the cat, he sent me a ‘photo. I see what he means. Does this look like a hunter to you?