I’m aware of all the cats in my immediate neighbourhood—out the large communal back court of my tenement and in the surrounding streets—if not personally acquainted and accepted by them. The first cat I knew in this way was Zozo, an elderly black and white cat who sat in the corner bay window one block away.

I confess, deep down, like every other writer, I was secretly hoping that the sheer excellence of my book would propel discovery. As a rational person who quarantines her vast capacity for fantasy from life decisions, I repressed this secret hope, but it was there, buried under layers of common sense, realism, some token modesty and those tightly contained expectations.

For the past two weeks, I’ve had to use a laundrette. The last time I used a laundrette, Boris Yel’tsin was president of Russia. I’d sat at the large laundry-folding table writing out Russian verbs.