The Mog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine

Those of you who know me will know that my Brighton life was brightened by my being godmother to one of the most beautiful kitties in existence: my friends R&A’s cat, lovely Lyra, of whom I apparently post so many pictures that many people think she is actually mine. (Last time I was home for a visit, many people asked ‘who is looking after Lyra?’ and were shocked when I replied ‘her owners’. Likewise many of my friends, while expressing joy at having me return to the fold, have also been a bit sad – ‘Does this mean no more pictures of Lyra?’).

 

 

But at least kitty company is available in Newcastle, albeit by the hour, in the not one but TWO cat cafes the city has. Last time I went to Mog on the Tyne, drawn mainly by the name. It was a slightly odd experience to go on my own, sharing the allocated timeslot with a mother and daughter: it was an exercise in neediness, since you aren’t allowed to pick up or fetch the cats, and have to wait for them to come to you. (I solved this problem by ordering food, at which I was suddenly the centre of attention, and they do give you some treats to share, so you are guaranteed at least some of the cats will come to you…).

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The place is obviously designed to maximise the cats’ comfort – one gorgeous ginger tom just bolted for a seat that was suspended from the ceiling and remained there the whole time, wanting nothing to do with us, and was left there unmolested. But there are enough friendly cats that you don’t feel like you are sitting in the corner being scorned. The cafe provides notes on the cats’ personalities, so you know which ones like to be petted, and which are more standoffish, and my personal faves were Ballet and Wobble, two rescue cats who had neurological conditions which made them unsteady on their feet (but not in pain, the notes were quick to point out), but who were ridiculously affectionate, and quick to come for cuddles.

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Overall, at a fiver a session (plus a reasonably priced coffee and cheese scone), it’s great value, and I expect to visit again when the Lyra longing gets too strong…

 

(It’s also worth noting that next door – NEXT DOOR – is a Dog cafe, entitled, with no respect for the Geordie accent, Dog and Scone (it took me ages to realise this was a pun on Dog and Bone, since we pronounce scone like ‘gone’ and ‘bone’ like ‘own’). I feel like this is either a disaster in the making, or the plot of my next rom-com.

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