**The Unplanned Celebration**
In the old flat on the outskirts of Manchester, the scent of trouble lingered beneath the festive bustle. Even on the stairwell, Eleanor caught the acrid whiff of smoke, while soapy water trickled down the steps as if the entire block had flooded. Pushing the door open, she tossed a bouquet from the office party onto the side table, kicked off her worn-out heels, and slipped into slippers—regretting not wearing wellies, as the floor resembled a swamp. From deep inside the flat came the frantic screeches of a cat, mingled with hissing, growling, and the unmistakable stench of something burning.
“James, what in blazes is going on?!” Eleanor shouted, her chest tightening with dread.
James appeared instantly—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smeared with soot, scratches, and a livid purple bruise under one eye. A towel sat atop his head, wrapped like a turban, as if he’d survived a misadventure in a bazaar.
“Ellie, you’re home already?” he mumbled sheepishly. “Thought your work do would run late, you being the boss and all…”
Eleanor sank onto a chair, folding her arms.
“Spill it, you walking disaster. What have you done this time?”
“Love, don’t freak out,” James began, though his voice wavered.
“The last time I freaked out was when the loan sharks came knocking in the nineties,” she snapped. “I panicked during the recessions, when the business almost went under. After that, nothing phases me. So, out with it—what’s happened?”
James exhaled like a man facing the gallows.
“Wanted to surprise you. Give you a proper celebration, something different. Thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Took the day off, went to the market, bought a leg of lamb. Then—well, things went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Eleanor echoed, bracing herself.
“No, the washing machine,” he admitted. “Dumped the laundry in, popped the lamb in the oven, started scrubbing. Then the cat…”
“Is Winston alive?” she demanded, bolting upright.
“Alive! Just… soggy. Swear on my life, he wasn’t in there when I turned it on! Then—well, he sort of… materialised inside.”
“How?!” she hissed, fists clenched. “How does a cat get into a closed washing machine?”
“Dunno,” James shrugged helplessly. “Slippery little blighter.”
Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Carry on, genius. And show me the cat. Need proof he’s intact.”
“Er, Ellie, he’s…” James hesitated. “Best see for yourself.”
“All limbs attached?” Her voice turned glacial.
James rubbed his scratched face.
“Fully operational! Just… temporarily immobilised. Safety first.”
“Right. Get on with it,” she sighed, steeling herself.
“So, while Winston was… cycling, I smelled smoke. Rushed to the kitchen, opened the oven—bloody inferno! Burnt my fingers, lamb’s ablaze. Tossed oil on it, and—whoosh! Hair caught fire, smoke everywhere, I’m flapping a tea towel. Then the cat yowled. Saw his eyes through the washing machine door—looked proper miserable. Yanked the plug, but the door wouldn’t budge. Cat’s howling, oven’s flaming, face is throbbing, hair’s smouldering. Grabbed a crowbar—next thing, the machine’s spewing water, but the cat bolts. While I fought the fire, the little demon tore through the flat like a tornado—smashed vases, shredded wallpaper, knocked the curtains down, spilled the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours downstairs banged on the pipes, threatened to neuter someone—him or me, not sure. But it’s fine, really!”
Eleanor wiped her eyes—half laughter, half horror—and strode inside. The carnage was spectacular: shattered glass, waterlogged carpets, peeled wallpaper, the reek of smoke. Tied to the radiator by all four paws, Winston dangled, his face swaddled in an old scarf—alive, but traumatised. She shot James a withering look.
“Explain.”
“Look, he wouldn’t stay still!” James babbled. “Sopping wet, had to dry him before you got home. Couldn’t wring him out, so… restrained him. Muzzled him so he’d stop yowling—neighbours were ready to call the vicar for an exorcism.”
She untied the cat, dried him with James’s makeshift turban, and freed his face. Winston hissed but burrowed into her arms.
“You’re a menace, James,” she muttered. “He could’ve suffocated. Though after the spin cycle, I reckon he’s invincible—like me.”
Sinking onto the sofa, cradling the cat, she levelled her gaze at him.
“Well?”
“Well what?” James drooped. “Should I fling myself out the window now, or…?”
“Congratulate me, you berk,” she sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
James brightened, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he declared:
“Ellie, love of my life. Thirty years together, and you’re still the same—stunning, brilliant, infinitely patient. Best wife, mum, nana. Happy Mother’s Day. May you always shine like you do today.”
He produced a little box with a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—crushed, mangled, but clinging to life.
“Flowers were proper lovely, honestly,” he added sheepishly. “Cat… didn’t share my vision. Don’t be cross, Ellie. Just wanted to surprise you.”
She pulled his head onto her lap, inhaling the roses—still fragrant, against all odds.
“You succeeded, you daft sod. No more experiments, yeah? Flowers’ll do. Another ‘celebration’ like this, and we’ll be evicted. Neighbours are one step away from burning sage. And I bet their husbands pull the same stunts.”
With Winston and James in tow, she set about salvaging the flat, appeasing the neighbours, and cleaning up the fallout of their “festivities.” Years of running a business had taught Eleanor one thing: as long as her husband and cat were alive, the rest was just details.
