**A Celebration with a Bang**
The house reeked of impending chaos before Lucy even stepped inside. The stairwell stank of burnt food, and soapy water covered the steps as if a flood had swept through. Kicking off her heels by the door, she dropped the bouquet she’d brought home from work onto the shelf and slipped into her worn slippers—though wellies might’ve been wiser, given how the hallway resembled a shallow pond. From deeper in the flat came the muffled yowling of a cat, along with an ominous hissing, buzzing, and the occasional alarming crackle.
“What in God’s name, John?!” Lucy shouted, her pulse already quickening with dread.
Her husband appeared in the doorway—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face streaked with soot, deep scratches, and a spectacular black eye. A towel was wrapped haphazardly around his head like a makeshift turban, as if he’d just fled a pub brawl.
“Lu, you’re home already?” John stammered, twisting the edge of the towel. “I thought your work do would’ve gone on till midnight—you being the boss and all.”
Lucy exhaled hard, sinking onto the battered footstool by the door. “Start talking, John. What fresh disaster have you unleashed?”
“Alright, love, just—don’t lose your cool, yeah?” he began, stammering.
“I lost my temper when thugs tried shaking down our business in the nineties,” she snapped. “I panicked when the dot-com bubble wiped our savings. I lost my mind when the financial crash nearly finished us. So unless you’ve burned down the bloody flat, I can handle it. Spit it out.”
“Right, well…” John rubbed his bruised cheek. “I wanted to do something nice. A proper surprise. Took the day off, thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Loaded the washing machine, nipped to Tesco for steak…”
“Steak?” Lucy’s eyes narrowed.
“No, the washing machine went first! But—not straightaway. I chucked the steak in the oven, started tidying, and then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” she cut in sharply.
“Course he is!” John huffed. “Just a bit… damp. He wasn’t in the machine when I turned it on, I swear! Next thing I know, he’s spinning in there like a bloody jumper.”
“How?!” Lucy leaned forward. “How does a cat get inside a closed washing machine?”
“Dunno,” John shrugged helplessly. “Teleportation? Cats are crafty buggers.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply through flared nostrils. “Go on. This gets better by the second. But first—where’s the cat?”
“Er, sunshine… he’s sort of… secured.”
“Please tell me you didn’t break his legs.”
“Still got all four!” John muttered, rubbing his cheek. “Just… temporarily immobilised. Safety measure.”
Lucy waved him off. “Fine. What next?”
“Right, so while Tom was… getting a rinse, I smelled smoke. Ran to the kitchen—steak’s on fire! Burnt my fingers, splashed oil, whole thing went up in flames. Hair singed, smoke everywhere, I’m flapping a tea towel while the cat’s screaming from the machine. Then I see his little face in the porthole, staring at me like I’ve locked him in Alcatraz. Tried opening it, but the bloody thing jammed. Cat’s howling, stove’s blazing, my face is throbbing, hair’s smoking—grabbed a crowbar, finally pried it open, water gushing everywhere. Tom bolts out like a shot, trashes the place, smashes your nan’s vases, shreds the wallpaper, knocks over the champagne I’d chilled for you. Downstairs neighbours are banging on the ceiling, screaming they’ll neuter something—not sure if they meant him or me. But honestly, love, it’s under control.”
Lucy wiped her eyes—half laughter, half horror—and shoved past him into the flat. The carnage was spectacular. Water sloshed underfoot, scorched pans smoked on the hob, wallpaper hung in tatters, and the air reeked of charred beef and feline fury. Tom was strapped spread-eagle to the radiator, a scarf wrapped around his muzzle—but alive, miraculously.
“Lu, he wouldn’t sit still to dry,” John babbled. “Had to restrain him before he wrecked more. Neighbors threatened to call the cops, the fire brigade, and—frighteningly—an old witch from down the road to curse us.”
Silently, Lucy untied the cat, dried him with the towel from John’s head, and freed his muzzle. Tom hissed once before vanishing under the sofa.
“You’re a proper menace, John,” she sighed. “Nearly suffocated the poor thing. Though after a spin cycle, I doubt much scares him now. Or me.”
She collapsed onto the sofa, scooping up the cat, and levelled a look at her husband. “Well?”
“Well what?” John blinked. “Should I fetch a noose now or let you suffer a bit longer first?”
“Happy Women’s Day, you daft git,” Lucy muttered.
John’s face lit up. He scrambled into the next room and returned, hands behind his back. Dropping to one knee (wincing as it hit a puddle), he beamed through his soot-streaked face.
“Lucy, my love, my sunshine,” he began grandly. “Thirty years with you, and you still take my breath away. You’re the strongest, cleverest, most patient, beautiful woman I know. Happy Women’s Day.” He produced a small velvet box with a gold ring and a crumpled bunch of roses—battered, but clinging to life.
“They were lovely, honest,” John added sheepishly. “Tom just… redecorated with them. Don’t be cross, Lu. I wanted it to be special. From the heart.”
Lucy pulled his head against her, inhaled the roses’ lingering scent, and smirked. “Still smell nice. Not like smoke, at least. John—next time, just buy flowers. One more ‘special’ surprise and the neighbors’ll send in an exorcist.”
“Wanted it to be better than your office lot,” he mumbled. “All their posh bouquets, fancy gifts—I wanted warmth, y’know? A bit of spark.”
“Oh, you sparked alright,” Lucy snorted. “Nearly set the bloody building alight. But… it’s the thought that counts. Now come on, you disaster. Let’s salvage what’s left before the witch next door hexes us both. God knows what her husband’s cooked up for her.”
