In this YouTube video, author and literacy advocate Lois Letchford reads aloud Chapter 8 of Anne Fine’s children’s story The Killer Cat Runs Away. The chapter follows Tuffy, a cat who decides to try his luck as a street busker. He observes a human busker drawing a crowd and coins, imagines the same success for himself, and sets up a makeshift tray to collect food scraps and tips. Tuffy performs a series of melodramatic songs about starving kittens and wild cats, but the passersby ignore him, react with hostility, and even discard his tray. Disheartened, Tuffy abandons his performance and looks for another plan. Lois introduces herself as the author of Reversed: A Memoir and frames the reading as a playful, first‑person cat narrative that mixes humor, urban observation, and a gentle critique of public indifference toward street performers.
Chapters
Hello, I'm Lois Letchford, author of the book Reversed: A Memoir and literacy problem solver, reading from The Killer Cat Runs Away, written by Anne Fine. Tuffy the Busker. I thought it best to go where no one knew me. After all, I didn't want nosy people peering down at me. Aren't you the cat from Acadia Avenue that dug up all my petunias? I'm going to take you home. So I went further into town than I do usually. It was still quite busy. There were a lot of people standing at bus stops and hurrying across the street. I wandered up and down till, from around the corner, I heard someone playing a tune I like on the mouth organ. I stopped to listen. Whoever was playing began to sing the words. Scooby-Doo, swish swish, fishy in a dish dish, make a little wish wish, it tastes delish delish. Just the thought made me feel peckish. I turned the corner and there in the doorway stood a young man. He had put a paper plate on the pavement and passersby were putting down their shopping bags and fishing in their pockets to toss in coins. A busker? He had been given quite a lot of money. I watched for a while and every few minutes he'd scoop up a few coins and put them in his pocket. Then he'd start singing again. I could do that. I could sing too, and maybe some of the shoppers would open their bags and drop me a chunk of chicken from their ready-cooked suppers, or a peel of sliced smoked salmon off the top of their pack. Yum yum, delicious. So I went around the next corner to find a doorway for myself and to collect the little gifts that I expected. To get. I dragged a fairly clean takeaway tray out of the gutter. And then I sang. I sang my little heart out. First I tried charming them with the forlorn old song about the kitten whose paws get frozen in the snow. Then I sang that song that makes soft people weepy about the tabby cat who Who starves to death up a tree. Please! How old are you? And how many cats' skeletons have you seen dangling from high branches so far in life? None. That's right, none. Then I gave my all to my own favourite, the Wild Cats Chorus. None of them worked. Not one. People just clutched their heads and hurried by. Some of them even glowered. Nobody bothered to stop to say, what charming melodies, or, what a lovely voice. In fact, they were quite rude. I kept hearing snatches of what they said as they rushed Horrible yowling noises! Shouldn't be allowed! Perfectly ghastly! Clearly in misery. Ought to be put down! Then one man had the cheek to pick up my collection tray and drop it in the litter bin along the street. I gave up singing then and just walked on. Time for another plan.
