A Proper English Household
One fine day, my mate decided to tie the knot. Married for love, naturally. His bride, Emily, was a stunnersharp-witted, independent, and a chartered accountant at a top firm, earning a tidy sum.
My friend, James, wasnt about to let his wife outshine him. He took on extra shifts, grinding away to pay off their flats mortgage sooner rather than later.
Theyd pooled their savings, secured a loan, and had a bit of help from family. The flat was theirs, done up with a sleek, modern finishproper posh, as they say. All set for a happy life.
Except happiness didnt show up. Emily couldnt keep up with the housework. Either she didnt know how to mop, dust, or get dinner ready on time, or she simply couldnt be bothered. Blamed it on her late hours at work. Fair enough, but James wasnt lounging about eitherhe was just as knackered.
Soon, rows erupted over who did more at home. Six months in, the flat was a battlegroundlaundry strewn about, dishes piled high. Neither dared admit the real issue to their families. Too embarrassed.
One weekend, James went fishing with his father-in-law, Henry. Both were mad for angling, which was why they got on so well. Over a campfire and a pint of ale, James spilled his guts, making Henry swear not to breathe a wordespecially to his mother-in-law.
Henry swore secrecy but insisted their home would never know peace without a proper “house guardian.”
“Ive got just the thing,” Henry said. “Give me a week, and Ill sort it.”
James thought the old man had lost the plot but kept quiet.
The following week, Henry turned up with a kitten. James was fuming. More mess? But Henry pulled him aside for a smoke on the balcony and reminded him about the “guardian.” Said the cat came with the solution. Just had to treat her right.
Turned out, James adored the little thing. A sweet, affectionate tabby named Whiskers, who followed him everywhere, purring for scritches. Only once did he have to clean up a tiny “accident,” but that was it.
Next evening, James came home to a spotless flat. No clutter, no messjust Emily cooking up a proper roast.
Chuffed, James finally put up that bathroom shelf hed been promising for ages.
Next day, he found Emily vacuuming the rugs. So he pitched intook out the bins, fetched a loaf from the bakery, even grabbed a bottle of wine on the way back. Dinner felt like a celebration. Couldnt remember the last time theyd done that.
The whole week was like that. Joy had moved back in. Come Sunday night, Emily said,
“You neednt pop home at lunch tomorrow. Ive got litter set up in the loo for Whiskers.”
“Waitwhat?”
“Your kitten. I know youve been sneaking home on your breaks to tidy up. But dont fretIve got it sorted now.”
James was gobsmacked. He hadnt been home midday. Thought *she* was the one cleaning. Turned out shed been ashamed to sit idle in a tidy house.
Next day, he slipped out early, doubling back quietly, phone at the ready.
Around noon, keys jingled at the door. Whiskers bolted over, mewing excitedly. Then a familiar voice cooed,
“Theres my girl! Brought you fresh cream and a treat. Look at you, using the litter like a proper lady”
The bedroom door swung open. Henry froze.
“So *youre* the house guardian, eh?”
Henry flushed.
“Well, I gave you the cat. Least I could do was help look after her.”
“And the key?”
“Pinched it when we went fishing, had a copy made, slipped it back next day.”
Three years on, James and Emily are happier than evereven have a little one now. And to this day, no ones quite sure who the real “house guardian” ever was.
