Cat whispering

The cat to whom I am an obedient and adoring slave is getting on in years. In human years, he is now seventeen. For the last six years he has suffered from fluctuating symptoms associated with lupus, a condition that not only distresses the animal but which drives the caregiver not only into bankruptcy but also to despair.

Naysayers and conventionally minded people have, for years, been muttering words about 'the long goodbye', or, to put it more specifically, 'the long needle'. In the vet's surgery, the options have been antibiotics, anti-inflammatories and antispasmodics. For a magnificent, willful feline lord presenting new symptoms almost weekly, there's little respite to be found in those injections.

And then there is the animal whisperer, who, from afar, has been chatting to m'lord about a number of things, including the fact that his other vet – the one who has been treating him homeopathically ever since the recommendation by the regular vet – needed to know. The cat whisperer has never met m'lord and knows nothing abuot his condition other than his toilet habits.

The feedback from the cat whisperer (who holds down a corporate position by day) has highlighted a number of issues which have provided guidance for the homeopath.

Most interestingly of all, the slave was informed via SMS last night that she was much loved by m'lord and that she needed to tell him at that moment that she knew of his love.

Hamlet informs Horation: 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Indeed, the gift of animal whispering is ''wond'rous strange'. More wond'rous, though, is the gift of animal love for and insight into the world of humans. How reprehensible our actions towards them in our slaughterhouses, in the forests and on the plains.

The Colour Purple

Oscar Wilde once said: "Lead me not unto temptation / I can find the way myself."

The right shade of purple is the snake in my garden; the apple on my tree; the cocaine in the shopping mall. A mere glimpse of a perfectly hued amethyst, or the sight of lush, inky dark velvet cloth somewhere inside a store, makes me lose all sense of reason and self-control. The object has to be touched; has to be had.

If the colour verges on crushed mulberries, there's no second glance. Where cool lavender and midnight blue find refuge in the heart of purple, there's healing there – and hope, and inspiration, and pleasure.

Everyone should have a totemic colour. Not just broad colour, but a specific shade. The preciseness of variation is the key, for those who know this, know you.