**A Celebration with a Spark**
The house buzzed with the uneasy spirit of impending chaos. Lydia sensed it before she even stepped inside. The stairwell reeked of burnt something, and the steps were slick with soapy water, as if a flood had passed through. Pushing the door open, she dropped the bouquet of flowers she’d brought from work onto the shelf, kicked off her uncomfortable office shoes, and slipped into worn-out slippers—though wellies might’ve been more fitting. The hallway was even wetter than the stairs. From somewhere deep in the flat came the muffled wailing of a cat, along with ominous hissing, buzzing, and an unsettling crackling.
“George, what in blazes is going on?” Lydia called, feeling dread simmer inside her.
A moment later, her husband appeared in the doorway—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smudged with soot, deep scratches, and a spectacular shiner under one eye. A towel was wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban, as if he’d just escaped a bazaar.
“Oh, Lydia love, you’re home already?” George mumbled, nervously fiddling with the towel. “Thought your work do’d run late, what with you being the boss and all the toasts…”
Lydia exhaled heavily, sank onto the old footstool by the door, and demanded through gritted teeth:
“Out with it, George. What have you done now?”
“Well, love, my darling,” he stammered, “don’t fly off the handle, alright?”
“I lost my temper back in the nineties when thugs tried shaking down our business,” Lydia snapped. “I panicked when our savings burned in the financial crash. I lost it when the recession nearly finished us off. Nothing fazes me anymore—not even a flood. Spill it. What kind of circus have you created here?”
“Right…” George hesitated, rubbing his bruised cheek. “I wanted to give you a proper celebration. A surprise, see? Thought I’d tidy up, do the laundry, make dinner. Took the day off, loaded the washing machine, popped to the shops… Well, did the shopping first—got some meat, but it leaked.”
“Leaked?” Lydia narrowed her eyes.
“No, the washing machine!” George blurted. “Though not right away. I put the meat in the oven, started cleaning, and then the cat—”
“Is he alive?”
“Course he’s alive!” George huffed. “Just a bit damp, is all. Swear I checked the drum before switching it on—he wasn’t in there! Then somehow… he was.”
“How?!” Lydia leaned forward. “How does a cat end up inside a closed washing machine?”
“Dunno,” George shrugged. “Teleportation? Cats are crafty.”
Lydia shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and said icily:
“Go on, George. This is getting fascinating. But first—show me the cat. I want proof he’s unharmed.”
“Er, sunshine,” George stalled, “he’s… a bit tied up at the moment.”
“I hope nothing’s broken?” Lydia eyed his scratched-up face.
“Oh, he’s in fine form,” George muttered, rubbing his cheek. “Just… temporarily immobilised. For his own good.”
“Fine, we’ll deal with that later,” Lydia waved him off. “Then what?”
“While the cat was, er… washing,” George continued, “I smelled burning. Rushed to the kitchen, opened the oven—and the meat was on fire! Burned my fingers, spilled oil, whole thing went up in flames! Hair singed, smoke everywhere, I’m trying to put it out when the cat starts shrieking. Ran to the washing machine, saw his eyes through the porthole like a prisoner. Turned it off, but the lid wouldn’t budge. Cat’s howling, cooker’s blazing, my face is killing me… Grabbed a crowbar, and suddenly the washing machine’s spewing water. Cat bolts out, sprints around wrecking everything—broken vases, shredded wallpaper, curtains torn down, spilt the champagne I’d saved for you. Neighbours below banged on the pipes, threatening to call the RSPCA. Not sure if for me or the cat. But it’s all under control—mostly.”
Lydia wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror—shoved past George, and surveyed the wreckage. The carnage was spectacular. Water everywhere, a charred pan smoking in the kitchen, wallpaper hanging in ribbons, and the scent of burnt roast mixed with feline vengeance in the air. The cat, pinned to the radiator, was trussed up in scarves, his face wrapped like a mummy—but alive, which was a miracle.
“Lyds, he wouldn’t sit still,” George rushed to explain. “Needed him dry before you got home. Couldn’t wring him out, he fought back. Wrapped him up so he’d stop yowling. Neighbours were threatening the police, fire brigade, and some old witch to hex us.”
Without a word, Lydia untied the cat, dried him with George’s towel-turban, and freed his face. The cat spat, shot her a dirty look, and vanished under the sofa.
“You’re a real piece of work, George,” Lydia sighed. “Nearly suffocated the poor thing. Though after that spin cycle, I doubt anything scares him now. Or me.”
She flopped onto the sofa, cuddling the damp cat, and gave George a pointed look.
“Well?”
“Well what?” George blinked. “Should I go hang myself now, or let you suffer a bit longer?”
“Congratulations, you dunce,” Lydia groaned. “Today’s Mother’s Day.”
George lit up, dashed into the next room, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he beamed despite his sooty face and bruise.
“Lydia, my sunshine,” he declared, “thirty years together, and you still amaze me every day. You’re the most beautiful, clever, patient, strong, loving woman, mum, and grandma. Happy Mother’s Day. Here.”
He handed her a little box with a gold ring and a battered, slightly shredded bouquet of roses.
“They were lovely, honestly,” George mumbled. “Just… the cat disapproved. Don’t be cross. Wanted to make it special. Heart in the right place.”
Lydia pulled him close, inhaled the roses, and smiled.
“Still smells sweet. Not like smoke. George—no more experiments, alright? Flowers are enough. Another ‘celebration’ like this, and the neighbours will riot.”
“Didn’t want it to be like your office do,” George admitted. “Fancy gifts and all. Wanted something with heart… and a bit of spark.”
“Oh, you sparked alright,” Lydia snorted. “A bit too much. But that’s not what matters. It’s the thought that counts. Now come on, you disaster—let’s fix this mess before the council evicts us. Or worse, that witch next door hexes you. God knows what her husband’s ‘surprises’ are like…”
**Life Lesson:** The best intentions often go awry, but love shines through the madness—as long as no one calls the RSPCA.
