**A Fiery Surprise: How Charlie Nearly Burned the House Down for Mother’s Day**
The chaos hit me before I even stepped inside the flat. The hallways reeked of smoke, soapy water trickled down the stairs, and the air was thick enough to whisper, *Turn back. Run.* But Mary—tough as nails, a CEO with steel in her spine—wasn’t the type to retreat.
She shoved the door open, dropped the bouquet from the office gala on the console, kicked off her heels like shedding the weight of the day, and slid her feet into slippers. Though, given the flood, wellies might’ve been wiser. Inside, something rumbled, hissed, and smoked. And in the corner, the cat howled like a banshee.
*”Charlie?! What in God’s name is going on?!”* she barked, wading through steam and the stench of burnt grease.
My husband emerged from the depths of the flat—barefoot, in his underpants, face smeared with soot, a shiner under one eye, and his head wrapped in a towel like some desert nomad. He looked less like a man preparing for Mother’s Day and more like he’d gone ten rounds with a flamethrower.
*”Mary, love… Thought you’d be later—corporate do, you always stay till the end…”*
Mary didn’t blink. She sank onto the ottoman, shut her eyes, and said flatly, *”Report. Skip the ‘darling’ and ‘don’t fret.’ I fretted when the business nearly went under in the ’90s. I fretted when the creditors came knocking. I don’t do panic anymore. Now—what did you do?”*
Charlie swallowed.
*”Wanted to surprise you. You deserve it, you’re a gem. Thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, roast a joint—scrub the floors…”*
*”A joint?”*
*”Not—not that kind! The washing machine. It leaked. Not right away, though. First the beef in the oven, then the laundry. And then… the cat.”*
*”Is the cat alive?”*
*”’Course he is!”* Charlie scoffed. *”Just a bit damp. And… tense. Swear on my life, he wasn’t in the machine when I started it. Must’ve… slipped in after.”*
*”Slipped into a *closed* washing machine?!”*
*”Well… seeped?”*
Mary buried her face in her hands.
*”Fine. Keep talking. But show me the cat first. Need proof at least *he* survived.”*
*”Er… He’s in the lounge. Tied up. For his own good. And to dry.”*
*”All paws intact?”*
*”Four. Just… immobilised. Temporarily.”*
*”Go on.”*
*”Right, so I’m doing the laundry, smell something burning. Open the oven—beef’s charcoal. Tossed oil on it—whoosh, flames. Singed my eyebrows. Then the cat starts screaming. Run to the machine—won’t open. Cat’s pressed against the glass, eyes like the devil’s. Wailing! So I’m stuck between the oven inferno and the washing machine horror. Grabbed a crowbar. Smashed it. Cat rockets out, and—well. You can imagine.”*
*”Christ,”* Mary whispered.
*”He took out two vases, christened the rug, shredded the curtains, clawed the wallpaper, smashed the champagne. Neighbours downstairs threatened to call the police *and* an exorcist. So I tied him up. Drying him off. And all this—for your surprise, love…”*
Mary stood. Walked into the lounge. The scene would’ve given a fainter the vapours, but not her. The cat—tethered to the radiator, face wrapped in a scarf, smoke hanging in the air, puddles, shards everywhere. Like a war documentary. Charlie trailed after her, babbling:
*”He wouldn’t sit still! Was worried he wouldn’t dry. And the yowling—had to muffle him. But he’s fine!”*
Mary untied the cat, wiped him down with Charlie’s towel, cradled him.
*”You bloody idiot, Charlie. He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washing machine, reckon he’s bulletproof now.”*
She sat on the sofa with the cat, levelled a look at Charlie.
*”Well?”*
*”Well what?”* he mumbled. *”Shall I hang myself now or later?”*
*”Wish me happy Mother’s Day, you prat.”*
Charlie brightened, bolted, and returned a minute later with theatrical flourish, dropping to one knee.
*”Mary, my sunshine. Thirty years with you, and I’m still in awe. You’re strong, stunning, patient, and loved. Happy Mother’s Day.”*
He offered a ring box and a battered bouquet.
*”Flowers were decent… till the cat, well—you know.”*
Mary sighed, inhaled the roses. *”They even smell like roses. Miraculously, not smoke. Charlie—no more experiments. Just flowers. Just a hug. Just don’t burn the house down. Deal?”*
*”Just wanted it to be special. They give you masterpieces at work, and I—wanted it honest. Heartfelt. With a spark. And, er… fire.”*
*”Mission accomplished,”* Mary smirked. *”Heartfelt. Sparky. Nearly arson. Come on. Damage control. Apologies to the neighbours. Before they *do* call an exorcist. Though who knows—maybe she’s got her own Charlie. Equally… inventive.”*
The cat yawned then, looped his tail around Mary’s leg, and—with deliberate spite—snorted in Charlie’s direction.
A success, then. For the ages.
