I return to the summer of 2002, drawn by an invisible magnet to a mystic summer, painted in pastel perfection as only memories can be. Remember the best; the rest floats away, the dust of cat litter in the wind.

There was something special about being with the cats then: a magical time of connecting with so many feline souls that live on right here, in my head. I can imagine myself one day in a nursing home, the ghosts of cats around me, the story of another time.

It was playtime at the cat pens that summer: Tango, Morgan and Spritzer had arrived. Three six month old feral kittens, adventure in their eyes, attitude in their claws. Tango golden auburn, a beautiful boy. Morgan a tabby treasure. And Spritzer, tortoiseshell, tabby and white and all shades in between, a strong spirit that bordered on madness in her eyes.

When they had their turn in the outer corridor, they raced around with glee, their wild nature appeased. They would climb on top of the doors, and chase each other around with unquenched energy.

I believe they were homed to a country home or a farm. They would be 12 now, and no doubt have long since forgotten the cat pens. But Spritzer’s fiery soul will live on there, a spark in the air, a promise of a better life to come.

On this Sunday I reflect on the many Sundays over the past decade that I gave to volunteering at the local cat shelter, before finally “retiring” at Christmas.

I am back in 2002, the year I started there, and its summer that felt as if it would never end, sunny day upon sunny day like a stack of dominos waiting to fall in to a winter that just would not come.

Bubble and Squeak were two of my favourites, brown and white kittens of around three months old. Squeak really did squeak, demanding attention and bouncing with joy on to your knee. Bubble was quieter, hiding in the scratching post and timidly accepting attention with caution in his eyes.

Both were rehomed together, so I wonder how they are now at 12 years of age? I hope they, too, enjoy many memories of a happy life. I am sure I will still recall them at the end of mine, sitting staring out the window of a nursing home and musing on these feline frolics in the photo album of the mind. Will my memories mutate by then, embellished by the imagination of time? Or will Bubble and Squeak still be in my heart, as they were then?