The quintessential lap cat

So the Bengal cat is not for you. How about that charming feline, the Persian? You wouldn't be the first one to fall for them. They were adored by  Queen Victoria,and are now favoured throughout the world. If you are one for the quiet life, this sedate and placid cat would fit the bill. There is one problem which is now being recognised and that is the breeding that has produced a 'flat faced' cat.  Sometimes this can result in breathing problems. Better to go for the original 'doll face' where the nose is less squashed. Choose a Persian and she'll be happy to keep you ompany while you take some time out on the sofa. You'll be able to resad more in my forthcoming book: The Cat: Paperscapes. Soon due for publication. 


The longer I venture into the world of cats the more amazing I find their variety. It is clear that anyone who wants to home one of the many breeds would do

well to study their overall charscteristics. The recent spotlight shone on the Bengsl, for example, has proved my point. Unaware of what they were taking on

the unfortunate cat has beenpassed from home to home until it ended up in a rescue centre. Bengals have a highly developed hunt/kill instinct thanks to

their wild cat heritage. They are also extremely territorial and woe betide any normal sized domestic cat that strays in its path. It is probably wise to train

such felines to walk on a harness and lead rather than allow it to roam the neighbourhood and menace moggies. Friends who own two Siamese cats report

that one was almost killed by a Bengal and have resorted to keeping their pets indoors. Maybe it is time to cool this passion for owning a 'wildcat'! 

Excerpt sequel to Monet's Angels


A sea of scarlet flowers and rising from it, the tall goblets of tulips; their brilliant orange colour made it look as if it had been painted onto the ruffled petals.

‘Oh how lovely!’ Isabelle stooped and picked one of the velvety, deep red blooms. ‘And what a wonderful scent…like honey and Parma violets.’



Klara sighed. ‘One doesn’t pick flowers in a public park. They’re intended for people to enjoy.’

Isabelle laughed. ‘But I am enjoying them.' She linked arms with her friend. ‘Now Klara, you’re the clever one, tell me the names of these flowers.’

'Well, those are wallflowers, hyacinth over there and pansies. These are tulips, come on, Izzy, you must know what tulips look like.’

But Isabelle wasn’t listening she broke away and stood in the middle of the path, her arms spread wide. 'Look at us! Just take a look at us! Strolling in the Tuilleries garden. Can you believe it?’

Everything was a drama for her, Klara thought. She should have been an actress.

A white-capped nursemaid pushing a pram eyed her in surprise but Isabelle took no notice. ‘I never thought Mother would give in and let us come to Paris. She’s just so strict, you’d think she’d never been young.’

They walked on. Klara began to make up a story in her head of two young, American girls abroad for the first time in their lives. What words would she choose to conjure the heady sense of freedom, the delicious sense of no one knowing exactly what they did? She wondered what darling Colette would make of them. Would she have them embark on some education sentimentale? Ever since she had read Cheri and seen the photograph of the author with her beautiful dark eyes, she had made up her mind she must talk to her. See for herself the creator of those lyrical stories. And now with a commission from the New York Herald Tribune, she surely had a chance.

They arrived at the Great Pond and stood staring into the water. Klara considered their reflections: Izzy, tall and slender, dark hair half hidden by a dear little hat, she shorter, sturdier, sun glinting on her blonde pageboy.

‘The sensible one,' Izzy’s mother called her and remembered the older woman’s anxious expression. ‘I am only allowing her to go on this trip, Klara, because I know you will keep her on the straight and narrow. You are to stay strictly to the itinerary, promise me you will not stray from it and, on no account, must you go to Giverny.’

And she had promised.

A breeze ruffled the surface of the water and she pulled her jacket closer around her, it was only April, after all.

Izzy shivered. ‘Oo, it’s chilly!’ She wore a frock in dusky rose with tucked sleeves and a wide pointed collar. The bodice ended in a peplum around her slim hips so that it looked like a two-piece. It was actually a frock with a softly flaring skirt. You had to be tall and slender as a willow to carry off a peplum, Klara thought enviously.

            ‘Look at you with those short sleeves, no wonder you’re cold,’ she scolded. ‘You should have brought a jacket.’

‘I know but I couldn’t wait to show off this frock.’

Just like her mother, Klara thought, fashion came way before practicalities. She opened her Baedeker. ‘I know, let’s go to the Musee de l’Orangerie, it’s just over there. It will be warmer inside and we can see the Monet Water Lilies panels.’

‘Swell idea. Let’s go.’

They turned their backs on the city and, it seemed, entered another element. Two oval shaped rooms, sparse and plain, each hung with four great panels. Moving round them, Klara had the impression they were indeed underwater. They had crossed the threshold into the world of the water lily. It was as if they gazed down on the rafts of blooms into the water itself. What surprised her was that the rooms were deserted; they were the only visitors there.

‘Magnificent, aren’t they?’ An elderly man had entered silently and stood gazing at the vast canvasses.

Klara ignored him but Izzy flashed a wide smile.

‘Just too wonderful. I’m only surprised we are the only visitors here.’

‘Ah yes, unfortunately.’ He spoke with an American accent. ‘You see, young lady, like all things there is a season, a time of approval. Impressionism has gone out of fashion. It’s all modernist and cubit art now. Mr Matisse and Mr Picasso have taken centre stage.’

Klara shook her had. ‘Can’t say I like them much. We saw them in New York, didn’t we, Izzy? But these are real beautiful.’

The man chuckled. ‘You think so? You should see the real thing. It takes your breath away. Make a trip to Giverny, that’s my recommendation.’

The air was dank and the sky grey when they came out of the museum. Lamps cast pale pools of light on the pavement. Klara remarked she would like to go to the famous café of writers, the Flore. ‘We might see Hemingway, who knows?’

They plunged into the Metro and emerged in Saint Germane de Pres. Inside the café, there were mahogany tables and comfortable red seats but no sign of a bearded American writer. They ordered café crème.

Izzy offered her cigarette case to Klara. ‘I was thinking of what that gentleman said about the real thing, the water lily pond at Giverny. According to Mother, it is a dream come true. She was invited to the house and gardens and she met Monet; he sketched her, don’t you know? When she’s had a coupla drinks she goes on and on about it.’

Klara eyed her friend. ‘Well, you’re not going to see it, Izzy, my dear. You know perfectly well you are not allowed to go there. We have to stick to your mother’s itinerary.’

Izzy stubbed out her cigarette and took up her cup. ‘Klara, this is the Thirties and we are thoroughly modern women. Who cares about what mothers say? I think we should take that gentleman’s advice and go see the place for ourselves.’

Monet's Angels

monetsangelsMONET'S ANGELS is a story of passion and intrigue, of two women drawn together by destiny. It is set in the last golden days before the First World War when a beautiful house and garden inspired some of the worlds greatest paintings. In the Normandy town of Giverny two women meet. Their backgrounds are worlds apart: Blanche, provincial French and middle aged, Judith a young, beautiful, rich heiress.

Their common ground lies in Claude Monet, the impressionist painter, but their motives are very different. It is 1913 and the elderly Monet is fighting his failing eyesight to create his Water Lily panels, which will be his swan song. Blanche, his dutiful stepdaughter, has renounced her considerable painting talent to support him. Into this orderly household, Judith arrives like a shooting star, fascinating everyone she encounters. She is determined to flout her parents wishes for a strategic marriage and live her bohemian dream.

Red Door Publishing 2015

Available on Kindle or in paperback from Amazon.

Read Amazon Reviews 

The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue: One English Woman's Mission to Save an Island's Cats

great sicilian catr escueNumerous visitors to Mediterranean countries have found their holiday punctuated by trips to feed hungry feral cats. Some try to save injured and sick felines. Not many have gone to the lengths of Jenny Pulling with her one-woman campaign, Catsnip. Set against the beautiful and sinister backdrop of Sicily and its enigmatic people, the book charts Jenny's journey as passionate defender of the island's often abused and ill-treated cats.

John Blake Publishing 2015

The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue is available on Amazon - click here to purchase as a paperback or Kindle edition. 

Read Reviews for The Great Sicilian Cat Rescue

The Great Sicilisan csat rescue has stayed in the 100 Amazon best sellers on Sicily for several months now.

Feasting and Fasting

I wish I could stop eating is the cry of every compulsive eater. The obsessive pattern of feasting and fasting is well known to the author who suffered from anorexia in the past. In a very personal and readable way she analyses the lives of many compulsive esters. These case histories show that stress, guilt, lack of control, unhappiness, feelings of inferiority or psychological imbalances can spark off food craving, gorging or starvation. Jennifer Pulling shows that the sufferer is not alone. She pinpoints the dangers and symptoms to look out for suggesting positive changes in life style and nutrition designed to help the sufferer of an eating disorder conquer this. It can be done. The book offers hope based on the author’s own experience.

HarperCollins Fontana 1985

The Caring Trap (HarperCollins Fontana 1987)

There is an army of people in this country with elderly or disabled dependants fighting a valiant battle against isolation, frustration–even acute depression. And as longevity increases, more and more people will fall into the caring trap. But need it be a trap? Jennifer Pulling has interviewed dozens of carers and includes her experience of looking after her ailing mother for many years. In telling their stories she points out the pitfalls – emotional, financial and physical – of the caring role and provides practical advice on how to cope with them. More than anything else, carers need support and the vital knowledge that they are not alone. This sympathetic book provides it.

Primrose (Congress Theatre 2009)

What kind of woman hands round sweets at her husband's trial for multiple murders? Did Primrose Shipman deny to herself that her beloved Fred was capable of killing on a spectacular scale? In ‘Primrose’ Jennifer Pulling dissects the relationship of this odd couple As their life together is unraveled and the ties that bind revealed, one tantalising question remains unanswered: if she knows more than she admits, what monstrous kind of loyalty is it that protects a mass murderer? The playwright shows us that nothing, not even life and death, can be wholly defined, even monsters are vulnerable. Says Jennifer: ‘The motive for murder is always intriguing and never more so than in the case of the Doctor of Death. In the play I present what I believe lay behind this man’s mission to kill. But it is the psyche of the person who supports a partner’s dark deeds which really interests me.’


As a journalist, I visited the Marais area in Paris, a few years ago. I was impressed by the area and the strong sense of something having happened there. Over the week that I was there I explored the narrow streets, had dinner at Jo Goldberg the famous Jewish restaurant and discovered the history of this Jewish quarter. On 16/17 July 1942 a Nazi decreed mass arrest in Paris was carried out by the police. Victims were arrested, held then shipped by rail to Auschwitz for extermination. French policemen and civil servants played a complicit role. It seems that some, particularly children were rescued by holy sisters before the raid and found a hiding place in another part of Paris. This is the case with my two characters, Emile and Jeanne Goldstein, a young Jewish brother and sister. Later still, after the war, members of the French population took over the empty houses and apartments. I was lucky enough to talk to people who remembered that time and later bought a book Rue de Rosier that gives a vivid picture of the life of this area both before, during, and after WW2. HOMECOMING is the result.

Meat (Television Script)

In the early 1990s the export of live animals commenced from Shoreham Port. Angered by the sight of young calves being sent to the veal sheds of Europe, local people joined together in mass and dally demonstrations. This is the background of MEAT. Mark, a jobless and disillusioned Oxbridge graduate angry at the system, joins a rent a crowd from London. When he meets Stella, a middle aged animal activist he is persuaded to become a true demonstrator. 
When a television journalist interviews Mark he becomes infatuated with her and believes his feelings are returned. He is to be disillusioned as she is using him. At a service for animals Mark’s conversation with the priest sets him on a new path. Terminally ill, Stella is finally admitted to hospital where she knows she will die. Mark promises her to fight on and finally the exports are stopped.


  • Writer's Blog
    A good deal of disruption in the house over the past weeks as I am having a new kit hen from scratch. However, as I learned long ago, the daily writing appointment has to be kept. Itissomething that I adhere to: keep the writing muscle going even when you are saurrounded by chaos!


Contact Me

I am based in Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex

Tel: 07599 813820



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