She was well known at her local supermarket. Not for the red velvet hat she always wore, or for her leopard print Doc Martens. Not even for her lace parasol.
It was for Clive, the silvery cat she walked on a lead, her constant companion on oversized paws.
He attracted stares and sounds of wonder. Dog lovers frowned and cat lovers went for a well-tolerated chin scratch, an exposed belly for the lucky few.
One day she turned up, the lead wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet, the velvet hat now black.
But no one knew her name.
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