When my best friend died, my black-and-white moggy didn’t leave my side for weeks. Then suddenly he was nowhere to be found …

Deep into Covid, my best friends convinced me it would improve my life immeasurably to adopt a cat. A few days later, a feline mugshot jumped out at me from the rescue website. A childhood love of Postman Pat had started a family tradition of black-and-white cats, and Oscar fitted the bill with his tuxedo markings. His tomcat cheeks, ear with a chunk missing and neck resembling an Elizabethan ruff sealed the deal.

After he arrived on the doorstep I followed the instructions to the letter. I kept him in one room to give him time to acclimatise, and didn’t crowd or fuss him. That lasted 30 seconds before he bellowed at the door to be released, then flopped down insouciantly on the landing. Twenty minutes later he wouldn’t budge from my lap. Neurotic, Osci was not. He was a beta-blocker in cat form – a quality that would soon become invaluable.