The woman who fed her cat meat with blood in it: An assemblage of pointless information

The woman always called be B*****. This is not my name but it did not strike me as particularly odd. I saw her on Saturday nights for a few minutes. But it was not even every Saturday night as it depended which of the F******** Soup Van runs I went on and then whether I was part of the pair or group (we never went anywhere alone) to do her side of the street. However, the mix up with names was also to be expected as a B***** had done Saturday nights on the F******** Soup Van before I started and, while we were different ages and rather different people, we were both fair skinned with curly hair. And the woman was considered crazy.

The woman was crazy about her [fat] cat. A compliment on her cat was a sure way to improve the woman’s mood (but really most of us volunteers were morbidly fascinated disturbed by the cat’s obesity). The woman was proud of her cat’s shiny coat. The cat’s shiny coat was, according to the woman, a product of the meat with blood in it that she fed the cat. Only once (or maybe it was a couple of times) was I unable to decline the offer to come in to see the meat. Occasionally she would bring the meat to the door. We just thought we had made it lucky if the woman answered the door in clothes and they were not completely see through.

Many years later I saw the woman in a different setting. She remembered my name.  

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