A Celebration with a Bang
The house reeked of impending chaos before Lydia even stepped inside. The stairwell smelled faintly of burning, and the steps were slick with soapy water, as if a flood had passed through. The moment she pushed open the door, Lydia dumped the bouquet of flowers she’d brought from work onto the shelf, kicked off her aching heels, and slipped into her old house slippers—though wellies might’ve been wiser, given the puddles in the hallway. From deeper in the flat came the muffled yowl of a cat, accompanied by ominous hissing, gurgling, and the occasional ominous crackle.
“Geoff, what in God’s name is going on?!” Lydia shouted, her patience already fraying.
A moment later, her husband appeared in the doorway—barefoot, clad only in boxers, his face smeared with soot, scratched up, and sporting a spectacular black eye. A towel was knotted around his head like a makeshift turban, as though he’d just escaped a brawl at the local pub.
“Lyds, you’re back already?” Geoff mumbled, nervously twisting the edge of the towel. “Thought you’d be stuck at the office party all night—what with being the boss and all the toasts…”
Lydia sighed deeply, sinking onto the musty old footstool by the door. She folded her arms. “Out with it, Geoff. What fresh disaster have you cooked up this time?”
“Right, love—just don’t get cross, yeah?” he stammered.
“‘Cross’?” Lydia scoffed. “I lost my temper back in the nineties when hooligans tried shaking down our business. I panicked when the recession nearly ruined us. But now? I’m beyond caring. The house could float away, and I’d just shrug. So spit it out—what’s this circus you’ve arranged?”
“Fine,” Geoff winced, rubbing his bruised cheek. “I wanted to surprise you. A proper do, you know? Took the day off, tidied up, did the laundry, thought I’d cook dinner. Popped down to the butcher’s, got some lovely beef—then the washing machine started acting up.”
“The beef?” Lydia narrowed her eyes.
“No, the washer!” Geoff blurted. “Well, not straight away. I shoved the beef in the oven, got cleaning, and then—bloody Trevor got involved.”
“Is he alive?” Lydia arched a brow.
“Course he is!” Geoff huffed. “Just a bit damp. Look, I swear, when I turned the washer on, that cat wasn’t inside. Then suddenly, he… was.”
“How?!” Lydia leaned forward. “How exactly does a cat wind up in a locked washing machine?”
“Dunno,” Geoff shrugged helplessly. “Teleportation? They’re crafty, cats.”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath, and hissed, “Go on. This keeps getting better. But first—show me the cat. Now.”
“Er, sweetheart,” Geoff faltered, “he’s… a bit tied up. Literally.”
“Hope his paws are still attached?” Lydia eyed Geoff’s claw-marked face.
“Oh, they work fine,” Geoff muttered, rubbing his cheek. “Just… temporarily restrained. For his own good.”
“Right,” Lydia waved him off. “Carry on.”
“Well, while Trevor was… er, spinning away, I smelled burning. Rushed to the kitchen—found the beef in flames! Oil everywhere, smoke pouring out, singed my bloody eyebrows trying to put it out—and then the cat starts howling. Ran back, saw his little face pressed against the glass like a POW. Tried to stop the cycle, but the stupid thing locked itself. So I got a crowbar—next thing I knew, the washer burst, water everywhere, Trevor shot out like a rocket, bouncing off walls, shredding the curtains, smashing your Nan’s vase, knocking over the champagne I’d chilled for you. Then the neighbours started banging on the pipes, screaming they’d have me neutered. Or the cat. Or both. But honestly, love, it’s all under control!”
Lydia wiped her eyes—laughter or horror, she wasn’t sure—and shoved past Geoff, surveying the wreckage. The floor was a pond, the kitchen reeked of charred beef, the wallpaper hung in tatters, and the air stank of smoke and feline fury. There, duct-taped to the radiator like a furry hostage, was Trevor—all four paws bound, his muzzle wrapped in an old scarf.
“Lyds, he wouldn’t stay put,” Geoff babbled. “Was worried about him catching cold before you got home. The drying cycle failed, so…”
Wordlessly, Lydia freed the cat, towel-dried him, and unwrapped his muzzle. Trevor shot her a death glare and bolted under the sofa.
“You’re something else, Geoff,” Lydia sighed, collapsing onto the couch. “The cat nearly suffocated. Though after a spin cycle, I doubt anything scares him now. Or me.”
She hugged the damp, disgruntled lump of fur and glared at her husband. “Well?”
“Well what?” Geoff blinked. “Should I start drafting my will, or do I get to suffer a bit longer first?”
“Congrats, you dunce,” Lydia snorted. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Geoff’s face lit up. He scrambled into the next room and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he beamed—black eye and soot notwithstanding.
“Lyds, my love,” he declared grandly. “Thirty years together, and you still leave me in awe. You’re the most brilliant, patient, fierce, gorgeous woman I know. Happy Mother’s Day.”
He produced a small velvet box with a gold ring and a battered bouquet of roses—crushed but clinging to life.
“They were prettier earlier,” Geoff mumbled. “Trevor sort of… redecorated with them. Don’t be mad. I just wanted to make it special.”
Lydia pulled him into a hug, inhaled the faint floral scent, and smiled.
“They still smell nice. Not like smoke, at least.” She ruffled his singed hair. “No more surprises, yeah? Flowers are enough. Another ‘special’ day like this, and we’ll be evicted. The neighbours might actually hex us.”
“Wanted it to be heartfelt,” Geoff mumbled. “Not like those posh office gifts you get.”
“Oh, it was heartfelt,” Lydia snorted. “And flammable.” She stood, hauling him up. “C’mon, you disaster. Let’s bail out the flat before Mrs. Jenkins next door calls in a witch. God knows what her husband’s pulled—she might hex us both for good measure.”
