The Celebration Nobody Asked For
In the old flat on the outskirts of Manchester, the air smelled of disaster disguised as festive cheer. Even on the staircase, Vera caught the acrid tang of smoke, while soapy water cascaded down the steps as if the entire building had flooded. She tossed her bouquet from the office party onto the hallway table, kicked off her worn-out heels, and slipped into slippers—wishing they were wellies instead, as the floor resembled the aftermath of a biblical deluge. From deep inside the flat came the wretched howls of a cat, mingled with hissing, rumbling, and the stench of burning.
“Michael, what fresh hell is this?” Vera shouted, her chest tightening with dread.
Michael appeared instantly—barefoot, in nothing but his boxers, face smeared with soot and scratches, a lurid bruise blooming under one eye. A towel was wrapped around his head like a turban, as though he’d survived a particularly brutal duel.
“Vera, love—you’re home already?” he mumbled, sheepishly avoiding her gaze. “Thought the office do would keep you till late, what with you being the boss and all…”
Vera collapsed onto a chair, folding her arms.
“Right. Out with it, you walking calamity. What’s happened this time?”
“Don’t fret, sunshine,” Michael began, though his voice wavered.
“I *fretted* when thugs came knocking in the nineties,” Vera snapped. “*Worried* when the business nearly went under after the crash. After that, nothing phases me. So spill—what’s gone wrong now?”
Michael sighed like a man facing the gallows.
“Wanted to surprise you. Make it special. Took the day off, went to the market, bought lamb. Thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Then—well, everything went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Vera asked, sensing another twist.
“No, the washing machine,” he confessed. “I loaded it up, popped the lamb in the oven, started tidying. Then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” Vera leapt up, eyes flashing.
“Alive! Just… damp. Swear on my life, he wasn’t in there when I turned it on! Then he just—materialised.”
“*How?!*” Vera clenched her fists. “How does a cat get into a *closed* washing machine?”
“Dunno,” Michael shrugged helplessly. “Liquid physics?”
Vera pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to throttle him.
“Carry on, Sherlock. And show me the cat. I want proof he’s intact.”
“Er, Vera, he’s sort of…” Michael hesitated. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“All limbs accounted for?” Her voice turned arctic.
Michael rubbed his scratched face.
“Technically? Just… temporarily immobilised. For his own safety.”
“Right,” Vera exhaled, bracing herself.
“Anyway, while the cat was… er, *spinning*, I smelled burning. Ran to the kitchen—bloody inferno! Burnt my fingers, lamb’s charred to hell. Tossed oil in—*whoosh*, flames everywhere! Hair caught fire, smoke billowing, me flapping at it like a madman. Then the cat starts *screaming*. I look—his eyes, huge, through the porthole. Realise he’s not enjoying the cycle. Turn off the machine, but the door’s jammed. Cat’s howling, stove’s ablaze, face throbbing. Grab a crowbar—machine springs a leak, but the cat bolts out. While I’m putting out the fire, this demon *races* round the flat, shrieking like it’s possessed, smashing vases, clawing wallpaper, curtains in tatters, wine I saved for dinner—gone. Neighbours below banged the radiators, threatened to castrate someone. Not sure if they meant me or the cat. But it’s *fine*—honest!”
Vera wiped her eyes—laughter or horror, she wasn’t sure—and marched in. The carnage was spectacular: shattered glass, waterlogged floors, peeling wallpaper, the reek of smoke. Tied spreadeagled to the radiator, wrapped in an old scarf like a mummified hostage, was Baron the cat—alive, but traumatised. Vera levelled her gaze at Michael.
“Explain.”
“He wouldn’t *stay still*,” Michael babbled. “Soaking wet—thought he’d never dry in time. Couldn’t wring him out, so… improvised. Scarf’s to muffle the yowling—neighbours were threatening priests and plods.”
Vera freed the cat, towel-dried him with Michael’s makeshift turban, and unwrapped his face. Baron hissed but burrowed into her chest.
“You’re a *rotter*, Michael,” she said softly. “He could’ve suffocated. Then again, after a spin cycle, I reckon we’re both numb to terror.”
She sank onto the sofa, clutching the cat, and stared at her husband.
“Well?”
“Er… should I top myself now or later?” Michael mumbled.
“Congratulations, you wally,” Vera sighed. “It’s *Mother’s Day*.”
Michael brightened, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to his knees, he declared:
“Vera, my light. Thirty years together, and you’re still *you*—gorgeous, fierce, patient. Best wife, mum, nan. Happy Mother’s Day. May you shine like… well, like this flaming disaster.”
He offered a box with a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—battered, half-plucked, but clinging to life.
“Flowers were stunning,” he added sheepishly. “Cat, erm, *pruned* them. Don’t be cross, love. Wanted it to be special.”
Vera pulled his head onto her lap, inhaling the roses—still fragrant, against all odds.
“Oh, you *delivered*, you menace. Next time, just chocolates, yeah? One more surprise like this, and the neighbours’ll be summoning *Myrtle the Witch*. And *her* husband probably pulls this rubbish too.”
Together—cat, husband, and wife—they salvaged the flat, pacified the neighbours, and untangled the wreckage of their “celebration”. Vera, hardened by years of running a firm, knew the truth: as long as Michael and Baron were breathing, the rest was just confetti.
