The World According to Bob

knew made me prone to destructive behaviour. All it needed was one moment of weakness and I could be on the way down again. It scared me. But it also stiffened my determination to continue that slow descent to earth that my counsellors had talked about. I didn’t want to be that anonymous man on the stairs again. I had to keep moving on.

Chapter 6
    The Garbage Inspector
     
     
     
     
     
    We all have our obsessions in life. For Bob, it’s packaging.
    The assorted collection of boxes, cartons, wrapping papers and plastic bottles which we use during our day-to-day life around the flat, absolutely fascinate him. And some materials fixate him more than others.
    Bubble wrap, naturally, is a source of endless entertainment. What child doesn’t love popping the bubbles? Bob goes absolutely crazy with excitement whenever I let him play with a sheet of it. I always keep a watchful eye on him. Each time he pops a cell with his paw or mouth, he turns and gives me a look as if to say ‘did you hear that?’
    Wrapping paper is another fascination. Whenever I unwrap a present for him, he shows more interest in playing with the fancy paper than with the actual toy itself. He is also endlessly obsessed by the crispy, crunchy cellophane used inside cereal packets and by supermarkets to wrap bread. It never ceases to amaze me, but he can spend half an hour rustling a ball of cellophane. Balls of scrunched up aluminium kitchen foil have the same effect.
    There is, however, no question about his absolute favourite type of packaging: cardboard boxes. He basically sees every box he comes across as a toy, an object designed to provide him with hours of fun. If I ever walk past Bob with a cardboard box in my hand he lunges at me as if to grab it. It doesn’t matter whether it is a cereal box, a milk carton or a bigger box, he bounds up, paddling his paws quickly as if to say ‘give me that, I want to play with it NOW’.
    He also loves hiding away in the bigger boxes, a habit that has given me a case of the heebeegeebees on at least one occasion.
    I don’t let Bob wander out of our flat on his own and the windows are always closed to avoid him climbing out. (I knew cats had the ability to ‘self-right’ themselves in the air and we were ‘only’ five floors up, but I didn’t want to test his flying abilities!) So when, one summer evening, I couldn’t find him in any of his usual spots I panicked slightly.
    ‘Bob, Bob, where are you mate?’ I said.
    I looked high and low, a process that didn’t take too long given the smallness of my flat. But there was no sign of him in my bedroom or in the kitchen or bathroom. I was beginning to genuinely worry about his welfare when it suddenly struck me that I’d put a box containing some hand-me-down clothes I’d been given by a charity worker in the airing cupboard. Sure enough, I opened the cupboard to see a distinctive ginger shape submerged in the middle of the box.
    He’d done the same thing again not long afterwards, with almost disastrous consequences.
    Belle had come around to help me tidy the place up a bit. It wasn’t the most organised and orderly of homes, at the best of times. It didn’t help that, for years I had been a bit of a magpie. I don’t know whether I subconsciously harboured dreams of opening a junk shop or whether I was just fascinated by old stuff, but somehow I’d collected all sorts of bits and bobs, everything from old books and maps, to broken radios and toasters.
    Belle had persuaded me to chuck out some of this old tat and we’d organised a few cardboard boxes full of them. We were going to throw some in the rubbish but take others to charity shops or the local recycling place. Belle was taking one box down to the rubbish area outside the flats and was waiting for the lift to arrive when she felt her box jiggling around. It freaked her out a bit and I heard her scream from inside my flat. By the time I opened the door to see what the trouble was she’d dropped the box to the floor and discovered Bob inside. He was extricating himself from a collection of old books and magazines where he’d curled up for a nap.
    Soon after that I’d actually made him a bed out of a cardboard box. I’d figured that if he slept in one he might be less obsessed with them at other times. I’d taken one side off a box then lined it with a little blanket. He was as snug as a bug in there. He loved it.
    It didn’t entirely get rid of his obsession, however. He