The World According to Bob

It took Bob a few days to get over the snake. He was a little nervous whenever anyone came up to us in the street or elsewhere and kept checking out their shoulders as if he was worried there was someone lurking there. It must have been confusing for him. For all these years, he’d been the only creature that rode around the streets, draped across a man’s neck. I think it completely threw him to see another creature there, especially such an alien and scary-looking one.

Of course it was all part of being back in the wacky world of Covent Garden.

Not everyone on the streets was so understanding. It remained a competitive and sometimes aggressive place, full of people only looking after No 1.

Bob and I were happily whiling away an afternoon on Neal Street when a young guy pitched up with an amplifier and a microphone. He was dressed in skater boy clothes and was wearing a baseball cap and Nike trainers. I spotted him setting up and waited for an instrument to appear, but there wasn’t one. All he had was a microphone.

I ignored him and got back to playing my own music.

I wasn’t able to shut him out of my mind for long though. Within minutes I heard an ear-splitting, repetitive noise booming out. The young guy was strutting around with his mic against his lips, ‘beat boxing’. I’m a fan of most forms of music but this really wasn’t my cup of tea. As far as I was concerned it wasn’t remotely musical, it was just noise.

Bob shared my opinion, it was obvious. Maybe because he’d spent so long listening to me play acoustic guitar, he seemed to like that kind of music. He had also got used to slightly heavier rock. He made his opinion of this ‘music’ plain immediately. I looked down at him and saw him casting his eyes down the street with what I can only describe as complete disdain spread across his face.

There were times when I was led by Bob and this was one of them.

He stood up, tilted his head at me and let me know in no uncertain terms that we should move. I gathered my stuff and moved about 70 yards down the street where I began playing again. I could still hear the din from the young kid down the street, but at least I could hear myself think.

It was a false dawn.

The noise this kid was making was so loud that others must have complained because within half an hour or so a police van arrived. I watched from a distance as a couple of officers got out and approached him. I saw the boy waving his arms around in protest, but it didn’t get him anywhere. A couple of minutes after the police’s arrival I saw him disconnect his mike and start to pack up.

You could almost hear the sighs of relief that must have been breathed in the offices, cafés and restaurants.

‘Thank goodness that’s over, eh Bob?’ I said.

My joy was short-lived. The police officers saw Bob and me sitting on the pavement and came over to talk to us.

‘You’re not licensed to play here, mate,’ one of them said.

I could have argued the toss and said we had a right to be there, which we kind of did. But I decided not to push it. Easing myself back into life in Covent Garden was difficult enough without aggravating the police. Choose your battles, James, I told myself, rather wisely, as it turned out.

It was just after midday on Neal Street and the crowds of tourists and shoppers were beginning to thicken. Bob and I had come out a little earlier today, partly because it was the first decent weather in a week but partly because we needed to get away by late afternoon so that I could get back home for a doctor’s appointment.

I had developed a really bad chest problem and I’d had a week or so of sleepless nights coughing and wheezing. I had to get something done about it. I was getting really strung out by the lack of sleep.

I’d barely got myself set up and started playing when I saw a lady in a ribbed blue jumper and trousers walking purposefully towards me. I could tell she was not a tourist. As she drew close, I saw that her jumper had epaulettes and badges and had a familiar logo on it. She was from the RSPCA.

In ordinary circumstances, I was a big fan and supporter of the RSPCA. They do a great job in preventing animal cruelty and promoting animal welfare in general and had been a huge help to me in the past. When I’d first found Bob injured in the hallway of my block of flats I’d taken him to a nearby drop-in clinic. As well as giving me a prescription for the medicine Bob would need to heal his wounds, the vet there had passed on lots of sound and sensible advice on how to treat and care for him.

That now seemed like a very distant memory. Today, I got the distinct impression that their presence wasn’t going to be good news.

‘Hello, James, how are you today?’ the lady said, producing a card with her ID on it. It showed that she was an Inspector.

I was a bit thrown by the fact that she knew my name.

‘Fine, thanks. What’s the problem?’

‘I’ve been asked to come and see you because I’m afraid we have had complaints that you are mistreating your cat, Bob isn’t it?’ she said.