The Unwanted Celebration
In an old flat on the outskirts of Manchester, the scent of trouble lingered beneath the festive bustle. Even on the stairwell, Emily caught the sharp tang of smoke, while soapy water trickled down the steps as though someone had flooded the entire building. She tossed her corporate event bouquet onto the side table, kicked off her worn flats, and slipped into slippers, wishing she’d worn wellies—the floor was a swamp. A frantic yowling, mixed with hissing, growling, and the stench of burning, echoed from deep inside the flat.
“James, what the hell?!” Emily shouted, her chest tightening with dread.
James appeared instantly—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smeared with soot and scratches, a purple bruise blooming under one eye. A towel sat twisted on his head like some battle-worn sultan’s turban.
“Darling, you’re home already?” he mumbled, shamefaced. “Thought your work do would run late. You’re the boss and all…”
Emily slumped onto a chair, arms crossed.
“Start talking, disaster-artist. What did you do this time?”
“Sweetheart, don’t panic—” James began, but his voice wavered.
“I panicked in the nineties when thugs came knocking for debts,” Emily cut in. “I panicked when the recession nearly tanked the business. After that, nothing scares me. Explain. Now.”
James sighed like a condemned man.
“Wanted to surprise you. Make the day special. Took time off, went to the market, bought lamb. Then everything went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Emily braced herself.
“No, the washing machine,” he admitted. “Tossed in a load, popped the lamb in the oven, started cleaning. Then the cat—”
“Is Winston alive?” Emily shot up, eyes wild.
“Alive! Just… damp. Swear to you, he wasn’t in the machine when I closed it! Then suddenly—well, he was.”
“How?!” Emily’s fists clenched. “How does a cat get into a closed washing machine?!”
“No clue,” James said, helpless. “Teleported?”
Emily pinched her nose, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Continue, genius. And show me the cat. I want proof he’s intact.”
“Er, Em, he’s… best you see for yourself.”
“Paws still attached?” Her voice turned arctic.
“Definitely! Just… temporarily restrained. For safety.”
Emily exhaled, steeling herself.
“Right. Go on.”
“Well, as Winston was… washing, I smelt burning. Ran to the kitchen—flames in the oven! Burnt my fingers, lamb charred. Tossed oil on it, and—boom! Hair caught, smoke everywhere. Then the cat screeched. Saw his eyes through the porthole. Knew he wasn’t happy. Turned the machine off, but it wouldn’t open! Cat wailing, oven blazing, face throbbing, hair singed. Grabbed a crowbar—machine’s leaking now, but the little git escaped. While I fought the fire, he went berserk. Shattered vases, clawed wallpaper, yanked down curtains, spilled the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours banged the radiators, threatened castration. Me or the cat, not sure. But all under control, love!”
Emily wiped tears—laughter or horror?—and surveyed the carnage. Shattered glass, waterlogged floors, peeling walls, and the stench of smoke. On the radiator, trussed up like a criminal, sagged Winston, his face wrapped in a scarf. Alive, but traumatised. Her eyes narrowed at James.
“Explain,” she demanded.
“He wouldn’t stay still! Wet, terrified, figured you’d kill me if he dripped everywhere. Had to restrain him. Scarf was to stop the howling—neighbours were ready to call an exorcist.”
She freed Winston, dried him with James’s makeshift turban, and unwrapped his face. The cat hissed but burrowed into her.
“You’re a prat, James,” she muttered. “He could’ve suffocated. Though after that spin cycle, like me, he’s probably immune to terror.”
She sank onto the sofa, cradling Winston, and glared at James.
“Well?”
“Well what?” He hung his head. “Immediate hanging, or later?”
“Congrats, idiot,” she sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
James brightened, bolted off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to his knees, he announced:
“My love. Thirty years together, and you’re still radiant—brave, patient, brilliant. Happy Mother’s Day. May you always shine.”
He held out a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—squashed, battered, but clinging to life.
“Flowers were gorgeous, I swear,” he added sheepishly. “But the cat… fancied redecorating. Don’t be cross. Wanted to surprise you.”
She pulled his head to her lap, inhaling the roses—still fragrant, despite everything.
“Mission accomplished, you menace. No more surprises, yeah? Flowers’ll do. One more ‘celebration’ and the building collapses. Neighbours are already eyeing witch trials.”
Together—with Winston glaring—they salvaged the flat, placated the neighbours, and cleaned up the fallout. Emily, hardened by years running a firm, knew: a living husband and cat was victory enough. The rest? Just details.
