The Unwelcome Celebration
In the old flat on the outskirts of York, a sense of impending doom lingered beneath the festive preparations. The moment she reached the stairwell, Vera caught the acrid scent of smoke, and soapy water trickled down the steps like a flood had swept through the building. She tossed the bouquet from her office party onto the side table, kicked off her worn-out heels, and slipped into slippers—wishing they were wellies instead, as the floor resembled a swamp. From deeper inside, a piercing feline wail mixed with hisses, growls, and the stench of burning filled the air.
“Michael, what the hell have you done?” Vera shouted, her chest tightening with dread.
Michael appeared in an instant—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smeared with soot and scratches, a dark bruise blooming under one eye. A towel was wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban, as though he’d survived a street brawl.
“Vera, love, you’re home already?” he muttered, guilt weighing his words. “I thought the office do would run late—you being the manager and all…”
Exhausted, Vera dropped into a chair, arms crossed.
“Out with it, you disaster. What have you done now?”
“Don’t fret, pet,” Michael began, though his voice shook.
“I fretted when the debt collectors showed up in the nineties,” Vera snapped. “I panicked when the recession nearly tanked the business. Since then, nothing scares me. So go on—spit it out.”
Michael sighed like a man facing the gallows.
“Wanted to give you a surprise. A proper one. Thought I’d tidy up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Took the day off, went to the butcher’s, got a nice leg of lamb. Then—well, it all went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Vera echoed, sensing fresh catastrophe.
“No, the washing machine,” he admitted. “Loaded it up, popped the lamb in the oven, started cleaning. Then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” Vera shot up, eyes blazing.
“Alive, swear down! Just a bit damp! I *promise*, he wasn’t in the drum when I turned it on! But then—somehow—he was.”
“How?!” Vera clenched her fists. “How does a cat get inside a *closed* washing machine?!”
“No clue,” Michael shrugged helplessly. “Must’ve slipped in.”
Vera pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Go on, then. And show me the cat. Now.”
“Er, Vera, he’s… a bit tied up.”
“Missing any limbs?” Her tone turned glacial.
Michael rubbed his scratched-up face.
“Not exactly! Just… restrained. For safety.”
“Right,” Vera exhaled, bracing herself.
“Anyway, while the cat was… eh, spinning, I smelt burning. Ran to the kitchen, opened the oven—bloody inferno! Burnt me fingers, the lamb’s black as coal. Tossed in oil, and it went up like a bonfire! Hair caught, smoke everywhere, me wrestling the flames. Then the cat starts screaming. I look—there he is, eyes wide through the porthole. Realised he wasn’t keen on his wash. Turned it off, but the door wouldn’t budge. Cat’s howling, cooker’s ablaze, face’s throbbing, hair’s singed. Grabbed a crowbar—machine’s leaking now, but the bloody moggy bolts out. While I’m fighting the fire, the little terror’s tearing through the flat like a whirlwind—smashed the vases, clawed the wallpaper, knocked down the curtains, spilled the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours below banged on the pipes, threatened to neuter someone. Dunno if they meant me or the cat. But it’s under control, honest!”
Vera wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror—and stepped further inside. The devastation was staggering: shattered decor, waterlogged floors, scorched wallpaper, the stench of disaster. Tied to the radiator by all four paws, their cat Winston glared, his face wrapped in an old scarf—dazed but breathing. Vera turned to Michael, eyes narrowing.
“Explain.”
“He wouldn’t stay still,” Michael babbled. “Soaking wet—worried he’d catch his death. Tried to wring him out, but he wasn’t having it. Had to restrain him. Muzzled him to keep him quiet—neighbours were ready to call the rozzers or an exorcist.”
Vera freed Winston, dried him with Michael’s makeshift turban, and unwrapped his face. The cat hissed but burrowed into her arms.
“You’re an idiot, Michael,” she murmured. “He could’ve suffocated. Though after a spin cycle, I reckon he’s as unshakable as I am.”
Sinking onto the sofa, Winston clutched to her chest, she fixed her husband with a look.
“Well?”
“Meaning?” Michael hung his head.
“Should I top meself now, or let you do the honours?”
“Congratulate me, you daft sod,” Vera sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Michael brightened, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to his knees, he declared:
“Vera, love of my life. Thirty years together, and you’re still the same—gorgeous, tough, patient. Best wife, mum, nan anyone could ask for. Happy Mother’s Day. May you always shine like you do today.”
He offered a small box—a gold ring inside—and a bouquet of roses, battered but clinging to life.
“They were lovely. Proper lovely,” he admitted sheepishly. “But Winston… well, he had opinions. Don’t be cross, love. Just wanted to surprise you.”
Vera pulled his head onto her lap, inhaling the roses’ stubborn sweetness.
“You *did* surprise me, you menace. No more experiments, yeah? Flowers’ll do. Another ‘celebration’ like this, and the flat’ll be rubble. Neighbours are one step away from calling a witch—and I bet *her* husband pulls this rubbish too.”
Together—her, Michael, and a disgruntled Winston—they set about salvaging the flat, appeasing the neighbours, and untangling the aftermath of the “surprise.” Vera, hardened by years of running a business, knew one thing: as long as her husband and cat were alive, the rest was just details.
