The house had that unmistakable vibe of chaos brewing. Lydia sensed it before even stepping inside. The stairwell reeked of something burnt, and the steps were drenched in soapy water like a flood had just rolled through. Pushing the door open, she tossed a bunch of flowers she’d brought from work onto the shelf, kicked off her aching heels, and slipped into her worn-out slippers—though wellies might’ve been more appropriate, given the ankle-deep puddle in the hallway. From deeper in the flat came the muffled yowling of a cat, while somewhere in the depths of the house, something hissed, hummed, and crackled ominously.
“George, what on earth is going on?!” Lydia barked, feeling annoyance bubble up inside her.
A moment later, her husband appeared in the doorway—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face streaked with soot, deep scratches, and a proper shiner under one eye. On his head, a tea towel was wrapped like a makeshift turban, as if he’d just escaped a bargain bin at a jumble sale.
“Lyds, you’re home already?” George mumbled, nervously fiddling with the edge of the towel. “Thought you’d be at the work do till late—you know, being the boss and all, giving speeches…”
Lydia sighed deeply, sank onto the old footstool by the door, and said through gritted teeth, “Out with it, George. What have you done now?”
“Alright, love, don’t freak out,” he stammered. “Just hear me out, yeah?”
“I freaked out in the Nineties when thugs tried shaking down our business,” Lydia snapped. “I panicked when our savings vanished in the recession. I lost it when the crash nearly wiped us out. After all that, I’m immune to disasters—just spill it.”
“Right, so…” George hesitated, rubbing his bruised cheek. “I wanted to throw you a proper celebration. A surprise, yeah? Thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Took the day off, loaded the washing machine, popped to the shops… Well, I went to the shops first, got some beef, and then it started leaking.”
“The beef?” Lydia narrowed her eyes.
“No, the washing machine!” George blurted. “Well, not straight away. I popped the beef in the oven, started tidying, and then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” Lydia’s eyebrow shot up.
“Of course!” George huffed. “Just a bit soggy. Look, when I turned the washing machine on, the cat wasn’t in it—swear down! Next thing I know, he’s… well, inside it.”
“How?!” Lydia leaned forward. “How does a cat get inside a closed washing machine?!”
“Dunno,” George shrugged. “Must’ve teleported. Cats are proper sneaky like that.”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled deeply, and said coolly, “Go on, George. This keeps getting better. But first—show me the cat. I need to see he’s alright.”
“Er, love,” George hesitated, “he’s… sort of…”
“Please tell me his paws are intact,” Lydia eyed her husband’s scratched-up face.
“Oh, they’re fine!” George muttered, rubbing his cheek. “Just… temporarily restrained. For his own safety.”
“We’ll deal with that later,” Lydia waved him off. “What else?”
“Well, while the cat was… er, getting cycled, I smelled burning. Ran to the kitchen, opened the oven—flames everywhere! Burnt me fingers, spilled some oil, and bang! Hair singed, smoke billowing, I’m trying to put it out, then the cat starts screeching. Bolt to the washing machine, see his little face in the porthole like a POW. Tried to stop it, but the hatch was locked. Cat’s howling, oven’s blazing, face’s throbbing, hair’s smoking… Grabbed a crowbar, gave the washer a whack, and next thing—water’s gushing. Cat bursts out, bolts round the flat like a mad thing, smashes three vases, shreds the wallpaper, takes out the curtains, knocks over the champagne I got you. Neighbours below are banging on the pipes, shouting they’ll have me neutered—not sure if they meant me or the cat. But, y’know, all under control, Lyds. No biggie!”
Lydia wiped her eyes—could’ve been tears of laughter or despair—then shoved past George and stepped into the flat. The carnage was next-level. Water everywhere, a charred pan smoking in the kitchen, wallpaper hanging in strips, and the stench of burnt beef and feline vengeance in the air. The cat was spreadeagled on the radiator, all four paws tied down, his face wrapped in an old scarf. But alive—which was a miracle.
“Lyds, he wouldn’t stay put,” George rushed to explain. “I was worried he wouldn’t dry before you got home. Couldn’t wring him out—kept wriggling. Had to strap him down and muffle him before the neighbours called the rozzers.”
Lydia untied the cat without a word, dried him off with George’s tea towel, and freed his face. The cat shot her a death glare, hissed, and vanished under the sofa.
“George, you’re something else,” Lydia sighed, slumping onto the sofa. “Poor thing nearly suffocated. Though after the spin cycle, I doubt anything scares him now. Me neither.”
She pulled the cat onto her lap and looked at George. “Well?”
“Uh… what?” George blinked. “D’you want me to jump in the Thames now or give you more time to suffer?”
“Congrats, you numpty,” Lydia snorted. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
George’s face lit up. He darted into the next room and returned, hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, still grinning through the soot and bruises, he took Lydia’s hand.
“Lyds, my sunshine,” he said solemnly. “Thirty years together, and you still amaze me. You’re the loveliest, cleverest, most patient woman I know—best mum, best nan. Happy Mother’s Day. Here.”
He handed her a little box with a gold ring and a bunch of roses—battered, half-bald, but clinging to life.
“They were nice before,” George mumbled. “Cat… well, you know. Don’t be cross, love. Just wanted to make it special. From the heart.”
Lydia pulled his head to her chest, sniffed the flowers, and smirked.
“Still smell nice. Not like smoke. And George—enough surprises, yeah? Flowers are plenty. Another one like this, and we’ll be evicted. The neighbours won’t survive it.”
“Wanted it to be different from your work do,” George muttered. “All them fancy bouquets and posh gifts—I wanted it to have a bit of spark.”
“Oh, you got the spark alright,” Lydia chuckled. “Too much of it. But doesn’t matter—it’s the thought that counts. Now come on, you disaster, let’s fix this mess and beg the neighbours for mercy. One more stunt like this, and they’ll be calling the witch down the road. God knows what she’d do—her husband probably pulls the same nonsense.”
