A READER once posed the question to me: "Now cats are independent.

They don't listen. They don't come in when you call, and they like to stay out all night. When they're at home, they like to be left alone to sleep. So why is it that every quality a women hates in a man, they love in a cat?"

I was thinking about that while visiting Ravenscraig at the weekend - probably the largest building site in Scotland. It's over 20 years since the main steelworks closed there, ripping well-paid technically challenging jobs out of Motherwell and consigning many men to a bleak existence of unemployment and benefits. The site was cleared, but rebuilding Ravenscraig into a vibrant community of housing and jobs has been painfully slow. Much of the land is featureless brownfield, although two modern, glass-clad buildings spring out from the mud - the new Motherwell College and the Ravenscraig Regional Sports Facility.

It is the sports facility I am seeking, in order to attend the annual show of the Scottish Cat Club. It may say something about modern Scotland, although I'm not sure quite what, that where men once sweated to create and shape steel, there are, at least for one afternoon, rows of cats, diffidently ignoring the hubbub around them, as judges hover, deciding who is the best Persian, Long-haired or whatever. The only steel here are the combs tugging any lumps out of miniature fur coats.

My only pet show previous experience is Crufts, that world bastion of dog shows where pedigree dogs are led into the arena by handlers whose own idiosyncratic ways of trotting along with their animals are almost as big a visual treat as the dogs themselves.

The cat show though is more relaxed, more friendly even. Cats are not going to be led around an arena. Don't be silly. They are far too imperious to allow themselves to be treated the way dogs are. A dog, quite literally, will go through hoops for a biscuit. A cat will allow you to coax and beseech it before deciding if it wants to take a treat. So there is no arena at a cat show. Instead the breeds are grouped together, with the cages on tables in a row, and two white-jacketed people, the judge and a steward who takes the cats out for inspection, quietly work their way along the rows. There are the fluffy Persians, sleek Siamese, noisy Bengals, regal Russian Blues, cheeky Burmese and even hairless Sphynx, among others. For them the governing body lays down a detailed points system for what the judges should be looking for in any breed. But there is a household pet section where moggies compete, judged on condition and temperament. So anyone could have a champion at home.

But is this interest in cats a bit obsessive? A glance in the car park shows at least three vehicles, including a motor home with large paw prints stencilled over it, with the personalised registration plate of "CAT". Will the hall be full of, how can I put it, what's the polite term, oh I'll just say it, crazy cat ladies?

Indeed not, I can happily report. There is a majority of women here, yes, but many men also. I chat to one owner, Harry Smith from Dunfermline, whose black-tipped short-haired cat Edward of Emerald Mist has a best of breed rosette attached to his crate. Edward though, is not excited about his win, and instead is sleeping in his litter tray. And that is part of the appeal. Harry, also a dog owner, explains: "Dogs have masters. Cats have support staff. Dogs are thinking, 'How can I please you?' Cats are weighing up whether they will even let you touch them, yet can show you great affection when you least expect it." Harry it seems enjoys the challenge of winning a cat's affection, and Edward is a beautiful cat even if it's choice of sleeping accommodation seems odd. "He knows his tray," explains Harry, "so he finds comfort in it when in strange surroundings." Perhaps it's a bit like chaps heading to the loo with a newspaper under their arm.

One of the judges, Elisabeth Stark from Cambuslang, laughs when she asks me: "Did you expect the hall to be full of Miss Marple type characters?" "No, of course I didn't" I replied, a tad too quickly. As for the judging, she tells me: "They are judged on temperament, friendliness and condition as well as standard points covering colour, length, shape, even position of ears. Coats can vary with the season, even hormonal cycles can change the condition of cats which is why a cat can win in one show but not the next."

As for the cat shows themselves, Elisabeth explains: "It's an awful lot of like-minded people in the one place who have one thing in common. It's a social event where people chat, catch up, and enjoy each other's company. They are of all ages and all walks of life. We don't care who you are. If you like cats, you're welcome."

I try to tiptoe around the question of the glibly used sobriquet "crazy cat lady" which the oafish use about any woman over 20 with a cat. Elisabeth is too polite to get her mataphorical claws out. Instead she simply tells me: "We're crazy about our cats - but we're not crazy."

She's right. Of course CAT car registrations, and three-tiered luxury pagoda scratching posts costing £245 which I spot for sale, does hint at a bit of over-indulgence, but no different from other fixations such as football or golf where fans will spend thousands following their sides. And while it seems a world away from steel-making, old steelworkers will tell you they would rather see the site used for anything, even cat shows, than remain unused. Besides, the steelworks had their own cats, praised for their mouse-catching skills, although that doesn't seem a category being judged at the Scottish Cat Show. Perhaps they should introduce it and get a few former steelworkers along. They would be welcomed.