*A Surprise with a Spark: How Alfie Nearly Burned the House Down for International Women’s Day*
The world inside Emily’s flat had already exploded before she even crossed the threshold. Smoke curled through the hallway, soapy water cascaded down the stairs, and the air itself seemed to hum with tension—as if whispering, *”Don’t go in… Better walk away.”* But Emily, a battle-hardened CEO, wasn’t one to retreat.
She shoved the door open, tossed a bouquet from the corporate gala onto the side table, kicked off her heels like shedding the weight of the day, and slipped into her slippers—though rubber boots might’ve been wiser, given the flood. Inside, something growled, hissed, and billowed smoke. And in the corner, their cat yowled like a banshee.
“Alfie?! What in God’s name is going on?!” she barked, wading through steam and the stench of charred grease.
Her husband emerged from the depths of the flat—barefoot, in his boxers, face smudged with soot, a shiner under one eye, and a towel wrapped around his head like a desert nomad. He looked less like a man preparing a celebration and more like a soldier who’d wrestled a flamethrower in the Blitz.
“Emmy-love… Thought you’d be later… corporate do, you’re usually the last to leave—”
Emily didn’t blink. She sank onto the pouf, shut her eyes, and said flatly, “Report. Everything. Skip the ‘darling’ and ‘don’t fret.’ I fretted when loan sharks came knocking in the ’90s. I fretted when the business nearly collapsed. Panic’s not in my vocabulary. Now—what did you do?”
Alfie gulped.
“Wanted a surprise. For the day. You’re gold, you deserve it… Thought I’d tidy up, do laundry, roast a joint—”
“A *joint*?” Emily cut in.
“Not—not the meat. The *washing machine.* It leaked. Not at first. Put the joint in the oven, then the bath, then the machine. And then… the cat.”
“Is the cat alive?”
“’Course he is!” Alfie huffed. “Just a bit damp. And tense. Swear on my life, he wasn’t in there when I started it. He must’ve… slipped in.”
“*Slipped* into a *closed* washing machine?!”
“More like… oozed.”
Emily buried her face in her hands. “Right. Carry on. But show me the cat. Need proof he survived.”
“Er… He’s in the lounge. Tied up. For his safety. And to dry off.”
“All limbs intact?”
“All four. Just… immobilized. Temporarily.”
“Go on.”
“So I’m doing laundry, yeah? Smell smoke. Open the oven—meat’s charcoal. Tossed oil in, it flared up. Singed my eyebrows. Cat starts screeching. Bolt to the machine—won’t open. Cat’s behind the glass, eyes like a demon. *Screaming.* So I’m stuck between hell in the oven and hell in the washer. Grabbed a crowbar. Smashed it. Cat launches out, and then—”
“Christ,” Emily muttered.
“He took out two vases, wrecked the rug, shredded the curtains, clawed the wallpaper, smashed the champagne. Neighbors downstairs threatened to call the police *and* an exorcist. I tied him up. Drying him. Was trying to surprise you, Emmy-love…”
Emily stood. Walked into the lounge. The scene would’ve given a fainter a heart attack—but not her. The cat, tethered to the radiator, face swaddled in a scarf, smoke hanging thick, puddles, shattered glass. Like a war zone. Alfie trailed after her, babbling:
“He wouldn’t sit still! Was worried he wouldn’t dry. Muzzled him so he’d stop yowling. But he’s *fine!*”
Emily untied the cat, wiped him down with Alfie’s towel, and cradled him.
“You absolute twit, Alfie. He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washer, he’s probably fearless now.”
She sank onto the sofa with the cat and eyed her husband. “Well?”
“Well *what*?” Alfie wilted. “Should I hang myself now or later?”
“Congratulate me, you pillock. It’s International Women’s Day.”
Alfie lit up, bolted out, and returned a minute later with pomp, dropping to his knees before her, hands clasped behind his back.
“Emmy-love, light of my life. Thirty years with you, and I’m still in awe. You’re strong, stunning, patient, and adored. Happy Women’s Day!”
He offered a ring box and a mangled bouquet.
“Flowers were decent… till the cat—you know.”
Emily sighed, sniffed the roses. “They even smell. And—miracle—not of smoke. Alfie, no more experiments. Just flowers. Just a hug. Just don’t burn the house down. *Please?*”
“Just wanted it special. They give you masterpieces at work. I wanted… homemade. Heartfelt. With a spark.”
“Mission accomplished,” Emily smiled. “Heartfelt, with a spark. And a side of arson. Come on. Let’s save the house. Apologize to the neighbors. Or they really *will* call an exorcist. Though she might have her own Alfie. Equally… *inventive.* Wonder what *he’s* burning down right now.”
The cat yawned, coiled his tail around Emily’s leg, and—with pointed solidarity—snorted in Alfie’s direction. A celebration to remember. For life.
