I can't do it. He's not a Jack. I had the most wonderful half-wild black kitten who was called Jack, and who grew up to be a fierce hunter, ferociously affectionate, hugely independent, and was a complete gentleman in black dinner jacket and white bib and bow tie. A macho version of Scooter. Friends and the Lovely Son who knew and loved him have protested, rightly, that ginger and Jack just don't go together.
So it's James. Jim, perhaps, on weekdays.
Why all the fussing? Names are important. I'm trying to keep it short, and fairly close to the name he was given by his foster carer - I'm not saying what it was, in case you have a dog or a cat with that name, and take offence - and I hope that Charlotte and the Handsome Young Policeman will take it as a compliment that my new boy is named after him.
James, meantime, trashed his cage in the night, clearly not wanting to be locked in. He's sitting behind the chair again now, allowing himself to be stroked, and purring loudly, crying piteously if I go out of the room, but resolute in his refusal to budge. The others are pointedly living upstairs. Early days are never easy, but we live in hope.
Photos to follow if I manage to take any that aren't identical to yesterday's.