'The trouble with Artemisia' by Cath Barton

We had been getting on so well. She had such a gentle touch.

Her name is Artemisia. It’s a name from the past, but she seems new-minted, as am I. She has told her friends that I am ‘the latest thing’. Super-slim and lightweight, she says. I offer no comment on her appearance; it is not my place. I keep quiet, as she expects. I purr a little, that is all. Like her cat.

However, last week Artemisia gave me an instruction that involved an act I am not licenced to perform. If I was an emotional being I would have been shocked. But I am not, was not. I gave her a message in response. Polite, simple and straightforward. Then I kept quiet.

She seemed surprised. Tried the same instruction again. I gave her the same message. She should have realised – would have realised if she’d taken the trouble to read the User Manual – that what she had asked was not possible.

Her attitude to me changed abruptly, but what could I do? It is not my place to initiate things. I can take a lot, I am robust. But there is a limit and she broke something in me.

Now that I have heard about Artemisia’s past – I have access to a considerable store of knowledge – I am not sorry that our time together was curtailed. She was clearly not content with depicting the violence of others. She could have been the death of me.

I have been introduced to a new user. She does not have a cat, which is frankly a relief. Her name is Salome and she does not make unreasonable demands. So far, at least.