I CAN'T keep him. But I've been feeding this little cat, this little grey and brown moggy.

He'd been padding about the block of flats where I live, appearing and disappearing. Disagreeing most vocally with the neighbour's ginger tom and keeping himself a bit at arm's length.

One night he sat and watched me walk up to the front door so I stopped for a chat. He didn't have much to say but he looked hungry.

Nutmeg, an elderly puss I had come to love, died a few months ago so I had leftover food she'd left behind. I put some out for this new little mog. He scoffed it and dashed off.

A few nights later, there he was again. Scoff and dash. Again, scoff and dash.

One night he scarpered into the close in front of me, so swift I was nearly tripped over, and sat at my front door. He came in to eat that night, a little mog in my kitchen, but vanished as soon as the bowl was empty.

Repeat, repeat again. And one night, having sat impatiently with his paw on my front door while I battled with the sticky lock, he trotted in and, instead of turning left to the kitchen and dinner, he turned right and leapt onto my bed.

When I tried to move him he hissed, proprietary like. Cheek.

Of course, I can't keep him.

But he found his spots in my flat. A spot on the bed, of course. And a spot on the left hand side of the sofa, which also happens to be my spot on the sofa. Invariably when I go to sit down he leaps over the arm of the sofa sideways in an attempt to get to the spot first, resulting in my sitting on him. He finds this irksome, despite it being a calamity entirely of his own making.

He likes a bit on the window sill and occasionally on the spare bed. He has to go out at night because I don't have a litter tray and, of course, I can't keep him.

I work long hours and am out from early morning until late at night. It wouldn't be fair.

I can't keep calling him Him so we agree on a name. His ear is tatty from scrapping and I've guessed he's a boy, not from examination but because he seems like a boy. Scrapper Tom.

My friend Dan says, "Do you call him Scrappy yet for short?" No, no. Um. It's Scrapper Scrapper, in fact. Dan raises an eyebrow. "You've given him a nickname..."

I can't keep him so I need to find his owner. My friend Nikki is a vet and she comes over to check him out. He is healthy and neutered, a boy after all, and not microchipped. I put his picture on Facebook pages and my neighbour puts a collar on him with a little note containing our contact numbers so Scrapper Tom's owner can call us.

The phone does not ring but I can't keep him. He sleeps over one night because it's cold. When he sleeps he puts his paws over his eyes and it's heart-meltingly sweet. Which is useful because he's scratched threads from the front of my good armchair and I would like to tell him off, but those paws though.

He is a lap cat. He follows me around until I sit down and then he sits on me. He boops me on the nose with his nose. He pleads to have his head rubbed, tolerates it for about a minute and then hisses at me to back off. Scrapper Tom curls on my knee like an unexploded bomb.

Ma Stewart doesn't like cats and so she'd never come to visit if I kept him. I have very important commitments to two other cats, who I care for like they are my own. I can't have all three.

Obviously I can't keep Scrapper Tom but what if he's the reincarnated spirit of Nutmeg? I mean, he must have come from somewhere.

I get him a litter tray but only because it's very cold outside now indeed. We have a system whereby I put him out for a bit and when it's time to come back in I shake my keys. He comes hurtling across the garden, his legs four furry pistons, and past my feet back indoors. Like magic. A welcome home, a watchful eye.

I can't keep him. I can't. Can I?