April 8, 2009

I get in straight from work, sans post-work pint because I need to feed the animals.

I feed said animals.

Have, well, frustrating telephone conversation.

Sometimes you just can't get through, can you?

Then, immediately after conversation ends, the smallest cat, mother of the larger one, sits up on the couch and begins to make a strange noise.

Arches her back.

Then vomits half of her tuna-based catfood all over the couch, and her daughter.

Then leaps up onto the top of the couch, opposite a horrified me sitting here at the computer, and chucks up the rest of it onto the top the couch, its arm, and then down back of it and onto the floor.

I retch myself.

It is quite grotesque.

But I'm in charge. And more to the point, I'm living here. It needs to be cleaned - and pronto.

I smear some Jo Malone beneath and actually inside my nose and wrap a tea towel around my head.

I gingerly pick up the cushions and take them outside to the yard which is by now rather full of dog poo (I know, I know. I'll do it tomorrow.)

I retch again.

Then actually vomit.

Into a wheelie bin.

(It's not mine - I can't get fined. But yes - into the recycling one. Surely sick can be recycled into a tramp's dinner?)

Remove the couch cushion covers (because it's managed to hit three) and take them to the washing machine.

Realise washing machine still has quilt cover in that was previously vilely pissed on by fretting dog on Monday.

Remove duvet and hang up on the dryer knowing I'll have to do it again anyway because it's been sitting in the machine for two days.

Insert cushion covers into washing machine and press start.

Glance at clock. Match starts in 15 minutes.

Still with tea towel gas mask arrangement, clean up the remaining large remaining tuna mortars lying at remarkably wide angles.

Spray everything down, wipe, collect, scrunch up, transfer to wheelie bin. The grey one again.

Am dry sick once more into wheelie bin.

Look around house. Clean. Deliberately avoid looking at dog poo in yard.

Leave to meet my friend in the pub.

She's left her phone silent and so wasn't there, as was waiting for me to call, which I had, but she hadn't heard.

Watch Torres score magnificent goal. Eventually get hold of mate, go to different pub, where there is barely standing room, it takes twenty minutes to get a drink, I can't even see the fucking match, and they equalise.

Go to different pub - where the local nutcases go, and no one, but no one, else, does.

Realise am only man in room in a suit.

And also only one without a violent criminal record.

Chelsea thrash us 3-1 with the hateful Drogba getting the last one.

Have had two drinks all night.

Leave, and say goodbye to friend.

Need, frankly, a beer.

But miss off licence by two minutes.

Get back here.

To be greeted by a dog that has pissed all over the living room floor.

The one I cleaned two whole hours earlier.

Now fully expecting the electric to go off at any minute.

And a Black Panther-style rapist to break in and sodomise me in the night.

Cheers, God, once again.