A Celebration with a Bang
The air in the house crackled with the uneasy tension of impending chaos. Lydia sensed it before she even crossed the threshold. The hallway reeked of burnt rubber, and the stairs were slick with soapy water, as if a flood had swept through. Shouldering open the door, she dumped the bouquet of flowers she’d brought from work onto the side table, kicked off her heels, and slipped into her worn-out slippers—though wellies might’ve been wiser, given the ankle-deep water pooling in the hall. From deep within the flat came the muffled screech of a cat, punctuated by ominous hissing, buzzing, and the occasional ominous crackle.
“Gary, what the bloody hell?!” Lydia shouted, her pulse hammering.
A moment later, her husband slunk into view—barefoot, in nothing but his boxers, face streaked with soot, lurid scratches, and a spectacular black eye. A tea towel, knotted like a turban, crowned his head as if he’d just escaped a bazaar brawl.
“Lyds, love, you’re back already?” Gary stammered, twisting the towel’s frayed edge. “Thought your work do’d run late—you’re the boss, had to make speeches, clink glasses…”
Lydia exhaled sharply, sinking onto the moth-eaten ottoman by the door. “Out with it, Gary. What fresh disaster have you brewed now?”
“Right, love—just—don’t lose your rag, yeah?” he hedged, wincing.
“I lost my rag when thugs tried shaking down our shop in the nineties,” she snapped. “Panicked when the recession nearly sank us. This? This is nothing. Spit it out.”
Gary rubbed his bruised cheek. “Wanted to surprise you, yeah? Day off, deep clean, roast dinner. Popped to Tesco, chucked the laundry in, then—well, the meat—”
“Meat?” Lydia’s eyes narrowed.
“No, the washing machine!” he blurted. “But not at first. Stuck the joint in the oven, hoovered, then the cat—”
“He’s alive?” Her eyebrow arched.
“Course he is!” Gary huffed. “Just a bit… damp. Swear he wasn’t in the drum when I started it, but somehow—bam!—locked in, spinning like a tombola.”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gary. How does a cat teleport into a sealed washing machine?”
“Dunno. Maybe it’s a British Shorthair thing—ninja skills.”
She inhaled deeply. “Show me the cat. Now.”
Gary scrubbed his soot-streaked face. “Er… bit tricky. He’s, uh… secured.”
“Secured?” Her gaze flicked to his claw-marked arms.
“For his own good!” he said hurriedly. “Temporary immobilisation.”
Lydia waved him off. “Later. What else?”
“Well, while Mr. Whiskers was on spin cycle, I smelled smoke. Dashed to the kitchen—flaming roast! Grabbed the fire blanket, but the oil flared up. Singed my eyebrows, set the tea towel alight, and then the cat starts wailing from the washer. Yanked the plug, but the door’s locked. He’s yowling, the oven’s belching smoke, neighbours are hammering the walls, threatening to call the RSPCA—or me for the chop. Wrenched the door open with a crowbar, and bam! Water everywhere. Cat rockets out like a furry cannonball, knocks over your anniversary champagne, shreds the curtains, and now he’s got a personal vendetta against the radiators.”
Lydia wiped her eyes—laughter or tears, she couldn’t tell—and shoved past him. The carnage was biblical. Water sloshed underfoot, the charred remains of dinner smoked in the oven, and the wallpaper hung in tatters. On the radiator, duct-taped in a makeshift straitjacket, sat a very damp, very furious tabby, his muzzle wrapped in a scarf.
“Lyds, he wouldn’t stay put to dry,” Gary pleaded. “Had to improvise.”
Wordlessly, she freed the cat, dried him with Gary’s tea-towel turban, and watched as he fled under the sofa with a venomous hiss.
“You’re a menace, Gary,” she sighed. “He nearly suffocated. Though after a spin cycle, he’s probably indestructible. Much like my patience.”
Collapsing onto the sofa, she glanced at her husband. “Well?”
“Well what?” He blinked. “Shall I hang myself now or let you do the honours?”
“Idiot,” she muttered. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Gary’s face lit up. He scuttled off, returning with hands behind his back, and dropped to one knee. “Lyds,” he said solemnly, “thirty years, and you still leave me gobsmacked. You’re the fiercest, loveliest woman I know. Happy Mother’s Day, love.”
He produced a tiny velvet box—a gold ring nestled inside—and a battered bunch of roses, petals askew but clinging to life.
“They looked proper posh before the cat got ’em,” he admitted. “Sorry, love. Just wanted it to be special. No corporate gift baskets—just us.”
Lydia pulled him close, buried her face in the bedraggled blooms, and smirked. “Still smell sweet. Not a hint of smoke. Gary?”
“Yeah?”
“Next year, just chocolates, yeah? One more ‘special’ surprise, and the neighbours’ll send round an exorcist.”
Gary grinned. “Deal. Though where’s the fun in boring?”
She swatted him. “Come on, you wally. Help me bail out the flat before the council condemns it. And pray the cat’s forgotten this by morning.”
As if on cue, a vengeful yowl echoed from under the sofa.
Gary winced. “…Or we could just move.”
