I was in Australia when I began writing these stories to amuse the children a friend of mine was tutoring. Her cats were Signy and Ambrose. A journalist friend had Jemima and JCP. Isshe Tisshe was my cat. Lucinda lived in a block of flats I lived in once. I never knew her name. Fleur (de Mal) belonged to another friend, a playwright.
Quinnia, or the little silver Himalayan-Siamese, belonged to yet another friend who was unemployed. As I heard it later, he had needed the money and began to breed her; she died of an infection he couldn't afford to treat. She was very small, delicate, and sweet. So I gave her a name and a life, and a spectacular rise from poverty.
The cats come with their suburban backgrounds, pretty much, except for Quinnia, whose story was the obverse of her life, and Ambrose, whose deep grey fur suggested a mediaeval thunderstorm. The stories were a joy to write, and, I hope, will be a joy to read.
