Darlinghurst Blog: Animal Life: Ralf the Cat

I've been a bit quiet on the blogging front recently and that's mainly because I've been feeling a bit blurgh. I've wasted far too much time watching television series on my laptop and being generally unproductive and uninspired. Adding to this general malaise is the fact that my muse appears to have left the neighbourhood.

I first met Ralf the cat in 2010 when I moved back to Darlinghurst and set up house in Royston Street. I didn't know his name for a long time, but would often stop with him to pat and chat.

It seemed that every time I went outside, Ralf was hanging about somewhere, a regular presence in the street.

You didn't have to search hard to find him: just look for the sunniest, warmest spot in the street and Ralf would be there. 

During the day Ralf would sleep in whatever sunny pocket he could find, whether it was on a car, in a garden bed or even in the middle of the road. 

But cars were a particular favourite, especially when the motor was still warm. 

I once watched as a driver returned to their car to find Ralf asleep on the bonnet. The driver sat behind the wheel and started the engine, but Ralf didn't move. He simply woke slowly from his slumber, looked at the driver and sat there staring.

One time I saw Ralf taunting Digger the dog on Craigend Street. (Digger was also a regular street character, but moved out of the area earlier this year after nipping one of the children in his house.)

Digger was madly barking behind his fence at the cheeky cat who would dare come near his home. Ralf strolled by, barely giving the dog a glance. 

I admired this about Ralf, his carefree, fearless, don't give a damn attitude and often wished I could be the same.

If Ralf was crossing the road and a car came along, he wouldn't run to get out of the way, but just continue sauntering on with his tail in the air.

If you stopped and gave him pats and he purred and you thought that you had won him over for life, he would then completely ignore you the next day.

He just had that way about him. And because he was so difficult to win over, it made me even more determined to be his friend.

So no matter where I was going, or even if I was running late, I always made sure to stop and say hello to Ralf, give him a rub under his neck and pat the dust and malting fur off his back. 

During these days of wooing him, I often wondered where Ralf lived. 

Once I had seen him jump out the ground floor bathroom window of a neighbouring apartment block. Another time, I saw him go into the building of the man with the umbrella, who lives in my street. 

Other times I spotted Ralf loitering around on Craigend Street and as far away as the little park on Nimrod Street. So he may not have lived in Royston Street at all.

Ralf soon became familiar with my attentions and the way I would call out, 'Ralf!' in a sort of loud, breathy whisper when I saw him. And it seemed his attitude towards me started to soften.

One night, while coming home late, I saw him sitting on the bonnet of a large 4WD and just by habit called out his name: 'Ralf!'

Ralf leapt off the car and ran towards me where he was greeted by his usual pats. 

Then as I said goodbye and walked towards my home, he followed me, right inside the door, up the stairs and into my apartment.

He soon became a regular guest.

I'd see him on the street, call out 'Ralf!' and he'd trot along with me to my door.

Once I called out 'Ralf!' and he followed me all the way across Craigend Street and down to Ward Avenue, about 500m away.

In my apartment, I would place a dish on the kitchen floor and feed him cheese and ham and milk and whatever I could find of interest to him in the fridge. 

I eventually started buying little packets of Dine cat food from the supermarket and always made sure I had ample supply in case Ralf should visit.

He was rather picky about what he ate and would occasionally refuse to eat the new Dine flavour I had bought him, such as Turkey in a Delicious Gravy or Country Chicken. 

When that happened he would just sit in the kitchen expecting me to dish something else up.

I refused to pander to this behaviour and would just ignore him. 

But it didn't happen often, as Ralf mostly had a ferocious appetite - which only added to the mystery of his living arrangements. 

Did anyone feed him regularly? Where did he go when he wasn't in the street? 

Yet despite his apparent independence, he was always wearing a different new fashionable collar, strung with a metal circle engraved with his name. So clearly he had a home somewhere.

Once he had eaten his fill, Ralf would stand by my front door, waiting to be let back out into the street.

At first, the visits didn't last long.

But soon, Ralf began to make himself at home. 

Instead of standing at the front door when he finished eating, he would stay awhile and keep me company.

I'll never forget the day when I was lying on my bed reading and he climbed onto my back, padded around to make himself comfortable and then fell asleep.

It was a rather uncomfortable 10 minutes, but his presence was still a comfort to me nonetheless.

One day I saw the man with an umbrella talking to Ralf, so I went up and asked him if he was his owner. 

The man said "No, Ralf just comes up to eat sometimes. He visits a few different people in the street." 

"I think he lives in that apartment over there," the man said, waving to the place where I'd seen Ralf emerge from the bathroom window. 

So Ralf really did have a home. And I wasn't his only friend.

Still, I liked to think that Ralf preferred me best, especially when I returned home one day and found him waiting for me in the pot plant outside my door, showing off his latest collar.

The last time Ralf came to my apartment was on 23 March this year. 

It was a Saturday night and I had a friend over and Ralf joined us for dinner. 

He didn't visit long, despite us imploring him to stay. He just stood by the front door and waited for me to let him out.

About a week after that I saw him on Nimrod Street at night, walking towards the little park that opens on to Caldwell Street. I called 'Ralf!' but he didn't respond and I had the feeling that he didn't want to chat or be patted. In fact, he practically scampered off, as if he didn't know me.

I shrugged my shoulders and went home alone. 

I didn't know then that it would be the last time I saw him.

It has been two months now and there has been no sign of Ralf. 

There's no cat lounging on bonnets or lurking in bushes. No cat to pat and chat, no cat to call out to, and no cat to follow me home.

Royston Street just isn't the same, it almost feels dead without his presence.

At first I thought he had maybe gone on a short trip away, as his disappearance coincided with the school holidays. I would arrive home in hope, expecting to see his furry face.

But I have now accepted that he is gone for good.

I often wonder about him and where he is living. 

Is he out exploring a new neighbourhood? Or is he trapped in an apartment, with no outside access? 

Is he well fed? Is he happy? Has he made new friends?

I may never know, but I'll always keep a small packet of Dine in the cupboard in case he returns.

Across the Border: Art and Culture: Kings Cross Festival 2012 Part II

With all the bad press the neighbourhood has been receiving this year, it was good to see residents and shopkeepers reclaiming the streets last week. 

We sometimes stay indoors at night, away from the rowdy crowds, or we rush down the strip in a hurry, careful to avoid stepping on a discarded chicken bone, triangle of greasy pizza or splatter of vomit. 

But last Wednesday morning, the reclamation began in the normally grim ticketing area of Kings Cross Train Station, when a string trio marked the beginning of the Kings Cross Festival 2012.

Their music was a magical way to start the day, and I would have lingered, too, if I didn't have to go to work. That night, however, I was lucky enough to attend the festival launch party at the Mercure Hotel's Dandelion Bar.

It was a real squeeze of locals, politicians and performers, and we were kept entertained by a roving magician, live music and a lot of nice drinks. The magician, below, did some amazing card tricks, including one involving a lighter that burnt his fingers in the shape of the six of spades (the card I had selected). I still don't know how the magician did it. A friend of mine had a theory, but I refused to listen.

Another friend who arrived later said it was fantastic to walk along the street and hear the music, chatter and laughter of the party above. And everyone behaved themselves mostly. We didn't have to watch where we stepped.

Performer Vashti Hughes, from the hit-show Mum's In, was also there and I insisted on taking her picture with the Kings Cross Hotel behind her, because that's where her show is now on (5pm every Sunday!). She may not look too happy about being snapped, but trust me, it was all AOK. I think she had just taken a sip of beer. 

The festival's artistic director Ignatius Jones, above, said a few words about Kings Cross, the most memorable being how the area is known as an 'entertainment precinct' and yet there is no entertainment, unless you want to get shit-faced or go to a blokey strip club. The festival was all about bringing entertainment back to the Cross, he said. 

But the speech-ette I liked the most was by the chairman of the Potts Point Partnership, Adrian Bartels (above), who was the driving force behind securing funding for the festival from the NSW Government and the City of Sydney. Quite a lot of cash, too. 

Bartels talked about how he was raised on the North Shore of Sydney, which was filled with white, Anglo-Saxon heterosexuals. 

The Cross, however, was unique and filled with a diverse range of people of all ages and backgrounds, who came to the area because it was so welcoming. There were no weirdos in the Cross, he said, just eccentrics. 

It was a beautiful line, which gave me goosebumps.

Sadly, I wasn't able to attend any other festival events until the weekend, mainly because I'd only seen the program last Wednesday and my diary was already booked with stuff, which is most unusual, but it's that time of year. I hope next year, the program comes out a little earlier and perhaps they could hold the festival a little earlier, too.

On Saturday, I headed down to the festival pop-up shop, at 28 Macleay Street, in the hope of finding a dream dress, but the one I liked was about $1200, so I went to Fitzroy Gardens for some free entertainment instead. 

It was a gloriously sunny day and I wished I'd brought my hat as I could feel myself burning, despite seeking shelter under a magnolia tree. 

Warren Fahey had put together the line-up of performers and I stayed around for his set with the 'larrikin band', who played bush songs and 'city ditties'. There was a song about Woolloomooloo, which was interesting and Fahey told a few historical tales about the area.

It's not my favourite style of music, but the mood was really good, everyone was happy and a couple of adults danced as the children watched on.

Later, we were treated to a performance by cabaret artist Carlotta, one of the original members of the long-running Les Girls, featuring "heavily costumed males". Les Girls Restaurant opened in 1963 in a purpose-built building on Darlinghurst Road, which was then owned by the late Sydney identity Abe Saffron. Les Girls ran until 1993 and the building is now known as the Empire Hotel.

Carlotta, who sang a tailor-made Kings Cross version of The Lady is a Tramp, was one of four people to be presented with an inaugural 'Characters of the Cross Award', by Lord Mayor Clover Moore, for their contribution to the area.

After receiving her award and performing, Carlotta - who had a sold-out show at the Kings Cross Hotel the night before and a big picture story in the Sydney Morning Herald - signed autographs for her fans.

Also receiving an award was Frankie Davidson, whose song, Have You Ever Been to See Kings Cross, topped the charts in 1962.

If you think you've done some travellin', like to say you've been around;

That you've seen the sights of Paris or the heart of London town;

You might say you dined in Soho, would be mighty hard to toss;

Well let me tell you boy, that you just ain't lived until you've seen King's Cross.

It was quite a lively tune and while he was accepting his award, the music came on and Frankie gave a surprise performance and sang along, as his lovely wife, Helen, pictured with him above, looked on proudly. 

Vittorio Bianchi, above, has been making coffee at the Piccolo Bar Cafe, on Roslyn Street, for about the past 50 years and in that time has become a well known character of the area. As he accepted his award, young children jumped up and cried out his name, "Vittorio! Vittorio! Vittorio!", such is his popularity. 

One of the most photographed men in Kings Cross, Animal from the Kings Cross Bikers, was the last to accept an award from the Lord Mayor, for his contribution to many charities in the neighbourhood.

Animal arrived at the gardens with the crew of men who normally spend Saturdays sitting at Froth Cafe on the strip. 

I always say hello when I pass them, so when I took the photograph above on Saturday, the chap on the right asked me when I was going to go for a ride on his Harley. 

Now that would be a great story. But first, I have to get myself some biker chick threads.

As I was leaving the gardens, I passed by the lovely El Alamein Memorial Fountain and a beautifully dressed woman, above, who had just dropped her handbag, spilling some of its contents on the ground. 

I stopped to help her and as I was picking up some of her belongings, I remarked upon how pretty her red velvet rosebud pocket mirror was. 

"No one ever helps me," she said.

"Please, you keep it."

I couldn't accept it, but instead stopped and had a quick chat, also complimenting her on her exquisitely coloured outfit, which had been put together like a fantastic Matisse.

I soon learned her name was Boom Boom LaBern and she once a well-known Kings Cross cabaret artist. Pictures from her career feature on the wall of the Piccolo Bar. 

Since googling her, I have discovered she keeps a memoir-style blog, and also once ran a cafe in Dharamsala, a hill station in northern India. 

I was so pleased to meet her and happy that she posed for a picture. Doesn't she look marvellous. Next year at the festival, she should be presented with a Characters of the Cross Award.

I returned to Fitzroy Gardens briefly on Sunday, but it was so unbearably hot and there was not a breeze to be felt. I only stayed long enough to see one of the performers in the gypsy caravan, above, and to buy a couple of second-hand crime novels, which I duly took home and read, while an electric fan kept me cool.

But I'm looking forward to next year's festival and hope to meet more characters and attend many more entertaining events. 

Across the Border: Kings Cross: Reader Story: Adrian Bell and his Street Photography

Santa's Little Helper, Kings Cross, photograph by Adrian Bell

''Sure is lots of interesting people around the area. Often it's the ones you least expect to be the most interesting. Ones who brag are only after attention.'' - Adrian Bell, 2011.

It's easy enough taking pictures of buildings, books and buses for my blog, but portraits of people are another matter that require certain conversational skills and patience that I have yet to master. 

Adrian Bell, 61 (''but I feel a hellava lot older''), has been living in the Kings Cross area for the past 35 years and has mastered that talent, having taken thousands of photographs of people on the street as well as learning their stories.

Bell studied photography at TAFE for a short time but said it was ''so boring, I'd go to sleep''. Instead, he just went out and took photographs and learned the craft the best way you can: not through books and lectures, but by practice.

''I like photographing anywhere,'' Bell told My Darling Darlinghurst.

''But there are lots of characters at the Cross and I can be more sneaky with it.

''People are an interesting species, I like to look at them and wonder what makes them tick.''

Bell's equipment includes a Canon compact camera with 10x zoom, a Canon 300D and a Canon 30D. He also has studio lighting, flash packs and tungsten globes. 

''My favourite subject is girls,'' he says.

''Faces I like best.''

Brown Sugar (Gemma), Kings Cross, photograph by Adrian Bell

The Strip, Kings Cross, photograph by Adrian Bell

Adrian took the photograph above outside the old Westpac Bank building on Darlinghurst Road. The building is now home to the Sugar Mill Hotel.

Animal and ''Radio John'', Kings Cross, photograph by Adrian Bell

Adrian says Radio John's health has ''gone downhill'' since this photograph was taken and he is now living in a nursing home. Kings Cross Biker Randall ''Animal'' Nelson continues his good work in the neighbourhood, which includes regular toy-runs for hospitals and schools and other charity work.

Norman, Kings Cross, photograph by Adrian Bell

''I'd give Norman cigs because he didn't ask,'' Bell says.

''Very polite fellow, non violent. I asked him about the marks on his body, which would occur often, and he said they were from fighting. Not his nature at all. Because he was non-violent, people would bash him. I went to the Kings Cross bikie toy-run on December 19 to be told that Norman was bashed and had been taken to hospital, where he died from internal bleeding. Hit me later. Poor fella, he was 44-years-old.''

John ''Pal'' O'Connor, died in 2008 aged 45, photograph by Adrian Bell

Violet says: I first met John O'Connor when I lived in Redfern in the late 1990s. I had noticed someone had been going through my garbage bins and leaving the rubbish strewn across the street, which the local dogs then had a fine time dragging around. One day I saw John going through the bins and I went outside and asked him why he was doing it and what he was looking for. He said, in the saddest voice I have ever heard, ''I can't help myself, ever since my friend died . . .''.

I vividly remember him showing me one of the things he had salvaged from the rubbish. It was the little insert tab from a box of tissues, which you remove to access the tissues. It had a picture of flowers on it and he said he was going to stick it on his wall. 

Later when I was living in Darlinghurst I would see John all the time, wandering down the middle of Victoria Street carrying his plastic bags. When John died in 2008, The Sydney Morning Herald and The Daily Telegraph ran stories about his death. 

I'm so glad Adrian captured him on film, as he was then. I wonder what other treasures and stories Adrian has in his archive. 

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All photographs copyright Adrian Bell, 2011. 

If you would like to contact Adrian about his work, please send an email to adrian40@tpg.com.au