The Holiday That Wasn’t Expected
In the old flat on the outskirts of Manchester, the air smelled of trouble disguised as festive bustle. Even on the stairwell, Lydia caught the acrid whiff of smoke, while soapy water trickled down the steps as if someone had flooded the entire building. Pushing open the door, she tossed the bouquet from the office party onto the side table, kicked off her worn-out heels, and slipped into slippers—wishing they were wellies instead, given the lake covering the floor. From deep inside the flat came a shrill yowl, a mix of hissing, growling, and the stench of something burning.
“Nigel, what in blazes?!” Lydia shouted, her heart tightening with dread.
Nigel appeared instantly—barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smeared with soot and scratches, a livid bruise blooming under one eye. A towel was wrapped around his head like a defeated warrior’s makeshift turban.
“Lyds, you’re home already?” he muttered, guilt written all over his face. “Thought the work do would keep you out late—you being the boss and all…”
Exhausted, Lydia slumped onto a chair, arms crossed.
“Go on then, Mr. Disaster. What have you done this time?”
“Love, don’t panic,” Nigel began, though his voice trembled.
“I panicked in the nineties when thugs came knocking for debts,” Lydia cut in. “I lost sleep when the recessions hit and the business nearly folded. Since then, nothing fazes me. Out with it—what’s happened here?”
Nigel sighed like a man facing the gallows.
“Wanted to surprise you. Give you a proper celebration, something special. Thought I’d tidy up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Took the day off, went to the market, bought a leg of lamb. Then everything went pear-shaped.”
“Lamb?” Lydia asked, sensing a twist.
“No, the washer,” he admitted. “Put the clothes in, popped the lamb in the oven, started cleaning. Then the cat…”
“Is he alive?” Lydia shot up, eyes wild.
“Alive, alive!” Nigel rushed to assure her. “Just soaking wet. Swear down, when I started the machine, Whiskers wasn’t inside! Next thing I knew… well, he was.”
“How?!” Lydia clenched her fists. “How does a cat get into a closed washing machine?!”
“No clue,” Nigel said helplessly. “Must’ve teleported.”
Lydia shut her eyes, fighting the urge to throttle him.
“Carry on, Sherlock. Show me the cat—need to see he’s in one piece.”
“Er, Lyds, he’s… a bit tied up,” Nigel hedged.
“Paws still attached?” Her voice turned icy.
Nigel rubbed his scratched face.
“Definitely! Just… temporarily immobilised. For safety.”
“Right, go on,” Lydia exhaled, bracing herself.
“So while Whiskers was… eh, spinning, I smelled burning. Ran to the kitchen, opened the oven—bloody inferno! Burnt my fingers, lamb up in flames. Splashed oil, and boom! Hair caught fire, smoke everywhere, me flapping like a madman. Then the cat starts howling. Look over—his eyes glowing through the washing machine door. Realise he’s not having a grand time. Turn it off, but the door won’t budge. Cat’s wailing, oven’s blazing, face hurts, hair’s smouldering. Grab the crowbar—next minute, the washer’s leaking like a sieve, but the cat bolts. While I’m putting out the fire, the little demon tears through the flat, screeching like a banshee, smashing vases, clawing wallpaper, shredding curtains, spilling the wine I’d saved for dinner. Neighbours below banging on the ceiling, threatening to neuter something—him or me, wasn’t clear. But it’s all under control, don’t fret!”
Lydia wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror—and stepped further inside. The carnage was epic: shattered vases, water puddles, torn wallpaper, the stench of smoke. On the radiator, bound by all four paws, hung Whiskers, his muzzle wrapped in an old scarf. Alive, but traumatised. Lydia stared at Nigel, eyes narrowing.
“Explain.”
“Look, he wouldn’t stay still,” Nigel babbled. “Soaking wet, I was worried he wouldn’t dry by the time you got back. Couldn’t spin him, so I secured him. Muzzled him so he’d quiet down—neighbours were already threatening the cops and an exorcist.”
Lydia untied the cat, dried him with Nigel’s towel turban, and freed his face. Whiskers hissed but burrowed into her arms.
“You’re a right prat, Nigel,” she said quietly. “He could’ve suffocated. Though after the spin cycle, I reckon nothing scares him now—or me.”
She sank onto the sofa, cradling the cat, and levelled a look at Nigel.
“Well?”
“Well what?” He hung his head. “Should I top myself now or wait?”
“Congrats, you daft sod,” Lydia sighed. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Nigel brightened, dashed off, and returned hiding something behind his back. Dropping to one knee, he declared:
“Lydia, my love. Thirty years together, and you’re still the same—stunning, strong, patient. Best wife, mum, nan anyone could ask for. Happy Mother’s Day! May you always shine like you do today.”
He presented a small box with a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—crushed, battered, but clinging to life.
“Flowers were proper lush, honest,” he added sheepishly. “But the cat… well, he fancied a chew. Don’t be cross, Lyds. Just wanted to surprise you.”
Lydia pressed his head to her lap, breathing in the roses—still fragrant despite it all.
“Consider me surprised, you menace. No more experiments, yeah? Flowers’ll do. Another surprise like this and the flat’ll collapse. Neighbours are ready to call a witch, and hers probably pulls stunts like this too.”
Together with Whiskers and Nigel, they set about salvaging the flat, placating the neighbours, and clearing the wreckage of their “celebration.” Lydia, toughened by years of running a business, knew one thing: as long as her husband and cat were alive, the rest was just details.
