This Side of the Pond

Certain members of this community know there is entertainment to be had in the sport of testing my Britishness. They know it’s against my nature to make a fuss about things and have discovered how much fun it is to see how far they can push this rule before it breaks.

As a Brit, I am obliged to force down bad food at a restaurant rather than send it back. I must tell a hairdresser I love my new haircut even if it looks like a rat has been chewing on my head.

I am only permitted to express annoyance when someone puts a bag on the last seat in a train carriage by quietly tutting from too far away for them to hear. If someone cuts in line, the most I’m allowed is a gentle sigh of frustration.

A Brit is communicating a lot of information with these silent displays of anguish, but only another Brit would receive the message. When you live in a nation that prizes speaking one’s mind, you’re not going to get very far by muttering under your breath from a safe distance.

Fortunately for me, those mischief makers who think my quiet codes are hilarious (I’m looking at you, husband) have only succeeded in coaxing me away from old habits. After years of training, I have reached peak ornery and dread what my countrymen will think the next time I visit home and won’t make do with a lukewarm cup of tea.

Unfortunately, the rest of the Brits have had no such training and there are individuals willing to take advantage lurking on our very own soil. These individuals know how easy it is to get away with doing exactly what they want to, just by ignoring our muted signals.

I’m talking about cats. I know this is a species that’s never been celebrated for community spirit, but there are examples in Britain that go quite beyond the pale.

This week, it made the national news back in the UK that a cat by the name of Pumpkin had once again defied the authorities and sauntered back into his favorite supermarket. He’s not supposed to be there, but they’re running out of ways to let him know.

For the last six years, this tomcat has been spotted around the store, lounging on the self-serve checkout machines and browsing the cat treats. The supermarket claimed it had “taken action” and was now “gently encouraging” Pumpkin to exit the premises.

I can only assume that staff members have tried sighing, tutting, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes behind the cat’s back. All excellent strategies, but none of them successful.

The company’s bosses defended themselves by pointing out it’s not really possible to ban a cat from a store. That’s absolutely true; Pumpkin will have difficulty reading their strongly worded letter.

The cat has a following on social media, which is also perfectly reasonable. This is an animal unconstrained by the niceties of social graces, a freedom we Brits can only dream of.

Pumpkin will continue to spend his days hanging around the entrance of his supermarket and occasionally slipping inside until his owner gets back from work and tells him it’s time to come home for tea. He’s not the only cat with opinions about who’s allowed in a supermarket.

Oliver the cat over in Brockley has decided his local branch of Sainsbury’s is a great place to hang out. He prefers to perch on the top of display shelves.

From the highest points of the store, he stares imperiously at the customers, as though judging them for their grocery choices. He’d be an excellent accountability buddy if you were on a diet, I reckon. Despite being repeatedly thrown out by security, he sneaks back in when their backs are turned, because nobody in Britain knows how to say no to a cat.

Except in the Ely branch of Sainsbury’s, where Garfield the cat was told he couldn’t lounge on the red sofa at the in-store concession stand of a travel company any more. This was because he’d lost his temper with a little girl and scratched her.

The decision not to let him nap there any more incensed the many customers who made a habit of turning up early for their weekly shop so they could pet Garfield along the way. Many pointed out that the little girl’s parents should have been watching her and wrote to the company demanding a reversal of the decision. Eventually, Sainsbury’s gave up and said it would look into getting Garfield his own sofa.

This cats-in-supermarkets thing appears to be quite the epidemic. There’s Mango the tabby in Tiverton, who has set up home in the entrance to his local Tesco despite having a perfectly comfortable house to hang out in right next door.

There’s Brutus in the Saltney branch of Morrisons, who investigated the contents of people’s shopping carts and jumped in front of them at the exit, refusing to leave until he had been properly appreciated. Sadly, Brutus has now passed away, but the supermarket has reacted appropriately by commissioning a statue to immortalize him.

It’s not even just happening in the UK. Over in the Ukraine, a cat was recently found investigating tubs of dried goods such as flour, which are left open so customers can scoop the quantity they need.

The cat had clearly been given the wrong impression about what those tubs are for. After sauntering back and forth to find the best container, the cat climbed inside and did what a cat would do in an actual litter tray.

The response to this incident was markedly different to the ones received by cats claiming supermarket territory in the UK. Shoppers were outraged, and understandably so, and I doubt that kitty has been seen on the premises since.

No statues to immortalize his presence, no new sofas to make sure he’s comfortable, just a clear demand that the cat no longer be allowed to poop in the sugar. You won’t see that happening in the UK, I’m afraid; we can barely speak our minds to human beings, we’ve got no hope of getting the message across to a cat.