**The Unexpected Celebration**
The old flat on the outskirts of Manchester smelled of trouble disguised as festive chaos. Even on the stairwell, Claire caught the acrid stench of smoke, and streams of soapy water trickled down the steps as if the entire block had flooded. She tossed the bouquet from her office party onto the console table, kicked off her worn-out shoes, and slipped into slippers—wishing they were wellies instead. The floor was a soggy mess. From deep inside the flat, a desperate yowl echoed, mixed with hissing, growling, and the tang of something burnt.
“Richard, what the devil’s happened?” Claire shouted, her chest tightening with dread.
Richard appeared instantly—barefoot, in nothing but his boxers, his face smeared with soot and scratches, a raging purple bruise under one eye. A tea towel was wrapped around his head like a battle-worn king’s makeshift crown.
“Claire, love, you’re home already?” he mumbled, guiltily avoiding her gaze. “Thought the office do would run late—you’re the boss and all…”
Exhausted, Claire slumped into a chair and crossed her arms.
“Out with it, then. What have you done this time?”
“Sweetheart, don’t fret—” Richard began, but his voice wavered.
“I *fretted* back when hooligans were shaking us down in the ’90s,” she snapped. “*Panicked* when the recession nearly sank the business. Since then, nothing phases me. Explain. Now.”
Richard sighed like a condemned man.
“I wanted to surprise you. Do something nice. Thought I’d clean up, do the washing, cook dinner. Took the day off, got lamb from the butcher’s. Then… well. Things went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Claire’s stomach dropped.
“No, the washing machine,” he admitted. “Loaded it, popped the lamb in the oven, started tidying. Then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” She shot up, eyes blazing.
“He’s fine! Just a bit damp. Swear on my life, he wasn’t in the drum when I turned it on! Next thing I know, he’s… well. Inside.”
“How?!” Claire’s fists clenched. “How does a cat get into a closed washing machine?”
“Dunno,” Richard shrugged helplessly. “Slipped in, I reckon.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Go on, Einstein. And show me the cat. Now.”
“Er, Claire, he’s… best if you see for yourself.”
“Has he got all his legs?” Her voice was arctic.
Richard rubbed his scratched-up face.
“All present! Just… temporarily restrained. For safety.”
Claire exhaled sharply, bracing herself.
“Fine. Continue.”
“Right, so while the cat was… eh, *spin-cycling*, I smelled burning. Ran to the kitchen—flames everywhere! Burnt my fingers, lamb’s charred to hell. Tossed oil on it, and *whoosh*! Hair’s on fire, smoke billowing, I’m flapping about. Then the cat starts howling. Look over—his eyes are pressed against the glass. Realise he’s not having a grand time. Turn the machine off, but the door won’t budge. He’s screeching, oven’s blazing, my face is throbbing, hair’s singed. Grab a crowbar— finally, the machine bursts open, water gushes out, cat rockets free. While I’m wrestling the fire, the little sod’s tearing through the flat, yowling like a banshee, smashing vases, clawing wallpaper, trashing curtains, and spilling the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours below are banging on the pipes, threatening to neuter someone—him or me, not sure. But it’s under control, promise!”
Claire wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror—and stepped further in. The carnage was spectacular: shattered glass, sopping carpets, shredded wallpaper, the stench of burning. Tied to the radiator with his paws bound, Sir Whiskers hung, his furry face wrapped in an old scarf. Alive, but traumatised. Claire fixed Richard with a glare.
“Explain.”
“Well, he wouldn’t sit still,” Richard stammered. “Soaking wet, and I worried he wouldn’t dry before you got back. Wouldn’t let me towel him off, so I secured him. Muzzled him to keep him quiet—neighbours were threatening the police and an exorcist.”
Claire freed the cat, dried him with Richard’s ridiculous head-towel, and unwrapped his face. Sir Whiskers hissed but burrowed into her arms.
“You’re a right idiot, Richard,” she muttered. “He could’ve suffocated. Then again, after the washing machine, I doubt anything scares him now.”
She sank onto the sofa, cradling the cat, and levelled a look at her husband.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Richard hung his head. “Should I jump off the roof now, or wait till morning?”
“Congratulate me, you berk,” Claire sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Richard lit up, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he cleared his throat dramatically.
“Claire, my love. Thirty years together, and you’re still the most stunning, brilliant, patient woman I know. Best wife, mum, grandma. Happy Mother’s Day. May you always shine like you do today.”
He produced a little box with a gold ring and a bunch of roses—crushed, battered, but clinging to life.
“Flowers were proper lush, honest,” he added sheepishly. “But Sir Whiskers… didn’t approve. Don’t be cross. Wanted to treat you.”
Claire pulled his head onto her lap, breathing in the roses—still fragrant, despite everything.
“You *did* treat me, you disaster. Just… no more surprises, alright? Flowers’ll do. One more stunt like this, and the neighbours will call a witch. And I bet *her* husband pulls this nonsense too.”
Together—cat in tow—they set about salvaging the flat, soothing the neighbours, and untangling the wreckage of Richard’s “celebration.” Claire, battle-hardened from years running a company, knew what mattered: both her daft husband and the cat were alive. The rest? Just another mess to mop up.
*Lesson learned: Love survives chaos—but maybe keep the cat away from the appliances.*
