VARIETY, we are told, is the spice of life. Which makes the current propensity to put things, and specifically people, into societal boxes even more frustrating. For a while there in the late 2000s, there was hope that maybe, just maybe, the world could cope with slightly less proscription and take people for who they were. Sadly, although unsurprisingly, it was not to be.

Here we are in 2024, amidst some truly hellish discourse on both sides of the Atlantic, which is not only ­unnecessary but devastatingly reductive. Not meeting the right criteria – whether it be not ­being womanly enough, being perceived as too manly, or not having children – puts those of us who refuse to be put into boxes at ­increased risk from a society trying to ­regress at a rate of knots.

One of the things I love most about my island home is that no one bats an eye at my non-conformity. Here, I’ve never been angrily kicked out of a toilet by an older ­middle-aged woman who thinks I’m a man. I’ve never been called “Sir” by ­someone who realises their mistake a minute too late and then takes their ­embarrassment out on me. I’ve received no abuse and never felt unsafe based on how I look. The same cannot be said of the mainland.

Here, I get to just be me. Of course, that may be by virtue of not growing up in a small community and returning as an adult with a hard-won grip on my ­identity. Regardless, I am grateful. I get to have a life filled with incredible variety.

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Variety is well baked into island life – from the people, to the weather and jobs, to the sheer number of voluntary roles that make the place tick. As ­islanders, we’re often asked about what we do during the winter but rarely about our summers. Maybe it’s because outsiders assume we oscillate between cleaning ­toilets and wild swimming.

So, what exactly does a childless cat woman – and worse, a non-gender-conforming childless cat woman – do during a Scottish island summer? The answer is a lot.

Last week was slightly more varied than usual, but not much. Monday was an office day. The VAT returns needed squared away, the emails had stacked up, and my accountant had questions. I can barely remember what I achieved in any meaningful sense, but I did at least get a grip on the things I needed to do. It’s a start.

Tuesday was set to be a good, calm day. I blocked the day out and put the boat in the water with friends. I prioritise that type of activity all too rarely. It was lovely. By the time I got home, failure to notice the boat trailer behind me had ­resulted in another dent in the pick-up, but I had some mackerel and the news that two of our teas had won a Great Taste Award star. It balanced the scales.

Wednesday was one of those days where I just had to let it happen around me. I started with some website updates for a client, followed by a visit from some ­podcasters wanting to talk about tea. From there to the office, then to a ­consultation about the Crofting Reform Bill, and from there to a friend’s going away party.

Cats are valuable for more than their skills as mousers 

By Thursday, I was ready to have a quiet day, but it was not to be. I have a lot of soggy fields and after a prolonged period of drainage, we are working to ­improve the land. Part of the process is getting rid of rushes – which thrive in wet, acidic ground. One line of attack is to top them at least once a year to weaken their resolve. In my usual fashion, I had left it until the last available day before the weather broke.

To cut them, the sheep had to be moved. To move the sheep, the cows had to be moved. I realised too late that I had failed to pay my tax the previous day (up to the wire, of course) and that I had two meetings scheduled. Judging by the noise my phone was making, one was already in progress as the penny dropped …

When I reached the topping stage, the tractor started, which is usually an ­auspicious sign, but try as I might, the drive that runs the machinery wouldn’t stay in gear. I wedged it, I tied it, I swore at it, and I pleaded with it, but to no avail. Then the tractor broke down. Thankfully, my very long-suffering neighbour came to the rescue. I was already using his topper, so he lent me his tractor too. It is a ­substantial upgrade – with windows and mirrors – so every cloud!

By the time I had cut the fields – which are always larger than I remember – it was late. I had just parked up when I ­remembered that I was supposed to be judging at the Coll Show the next day – as well as selling tea. So I set to and got organised to the extent you can get ­organised at 10pm whilst also packing tea orders in a temper.

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I hadn’t just forgotten that I was going to Coll. In the interim, I had also agreed to dogsit another Collie this weekend. To put the icing on the cake, I was due at our Gaelic drop-in and conversation classes first thing yesterday morning. And there was a small matter of 1200 words that I had not yet started contemplating.

Thankfully, my dad is in residence, so he got landed with the dogs and, as he’s running the Gaelic classes, instructions on who to call if I don’t get back … Sadly, he drew the line at writing my column.

I started this on the boat to Coll, judged a cracking selection of veg, sold some tea on a borrowed table (I had, you guessed it, forgotten one), and awarded points to some lovely pets. I wrote some words whilst dining in the Coll Hotel and frowned over them on the boat on the way home. I bought the milk and biscuits and completed this as my Dad ran the Gaelic class next door.

Today, I’ll be looking down the barrel of sorting my life out in preparation for the week ahead.

Running two companies, a freelance business, and a croft means four sets of accounts to manage. That’s what ­Sundays are for – that and all the housework ­generated by four cats and a dog and my own lack of interest in cleaning.

Yes – four cats. I decided long ago that I might as well lean fully into the stereotype. I also live by a road that people treat as a racetrack, so it’s good to have some redundancy built into the system. Captain Haddock, Sergeant Pepper, Lazy Maisie, and Calum Cat (Malky Mosach to his friends) live a charmed life. With multiple sheds and beds, a ready supply of rodents and other delicacies, and very little need to remember appointments and tasks, I envy them no end.

I have cats because I like them. But more than that, I respect them. They are not just fiercely independent but they are full of variety and very hard to put in a box.

In a world obsessed with labels and ­boxes, perhaps we should all strive to be a little more like my moggies – ­independent, varied, and impossible to categorise. We have much to learn from them.