Happy Birthday To Me

Happy Birthday To Me

This weekend I decided to take a short trip for my birthday.
After excitedly discussing the pros and cons of the latest and greatest in recent vacuum cleaning technology, I came to the sudden realisation that I’ve peaked. I’ve officially started the slow and steady descent into the drudgery of middle age. Birthdays have become less about jelly and ice cream and more about asking the birthday fairies for a bottle of gin, so I can get trollied and forget that I’ve moved another year closer to the age of forgetting to wear trousers and pissing myself while out shopping in Mark’s and Spencer’s.

This trip then, serves as an exercise in denial; an opportunity to over indulge and pretend I’m still 21 while staggering around the shops, feigning disinterest at the latest kitchen gadgetry in Lakeland while secretly price checking silicone cake tins on Amazon.

As such, I was rather excited this morning, leaping out of bed and rudely awakening the Trio as I began hurling toiletries into an overnight bag and hunting for clean socks, a number of which had been removed from the washing basket and distributed liberally across the landing by Bailey.

As I pranced and flounced I suddenly became aware that the Trio was actually a Duo.
Each night, l call the boys in to bed and lock the cat flap behind them but, on occasional evenings, one of the little bastards decide to pull an all nighter. Last night Harvey was that bastard.

In prior years I would lay awake at night, fearing the worst as I tossed and turned, before eventually giving in to the urge to panic, frantically pulling on my shoes at 1am and pounding the streets while weeping into a box of Dreamies.
Inevitably after a long and sleepless night, the offender would rock up at 6am, oblivious to my trauma, and furiously demand I fill his bowl as he was positively ravenous after a night out on the lash. WELL, NO MORE.

With the installation of the cat flap came the ability to use the one way lock functionality.
Holy fucking heavens above, what a revelation! I can twist the lock and head up to bed, safe in the knowledge that, once the dirty little stop-outs make their way inside, they’re trapped; imprisoned until the safety of morning when daylight floods the streets and foxes and rogue Tomcats head back to their respective holes to await their next night of terror.

Although this feature doesn’t entirely allay my worries, I’ve made peace with the knowledge that the cats will inevitably return at some ungodly hour and the bang of the flap as they make their entrance is enough to satisfy my concerns and allow me sweet, sweet slumber.
That Harvey should not return at any point during the night is unheard of; he’s a creature of many comforts, none of which involve a night pounding the tiles.
The familiar panic began to set in.
“Fucking hell” I mumbled, abandoning my packing and beginning a frantic search of the house.

I checked every room, hurriedly calling his name as I sensed my trip sliding out of reach. I couldn’t possibly go away for a weekend without the Trio fully present and accounted for. How could I possibly enjoy myself and what would I tell the cat sitter?
“Sorry there appear to only be two this time but I’m away on my jollies to pretend I’m not old, while Harvey is possibly lost for all of eternity.” What kind of person would she think I was? A fucking horrible one most probably.

As the pitch of my voice reached levels that would surely set the neighbour’s dogs barking, I clawed under the beds and opened cupboards and drawers that couldn’t possibly be large enough to house a cat, but fuck it I checked anyway.

Certain I’d checked every single hiding spot in the house and with no response to my hysterical screeching I reached the kitchen, threw open the back door and stumbled out onto the deck.

“HARVEYYY!” I wailed, no longer concerned about what the neighbour’s might think. I was only half dressed, hair like roadkill as I howled his name, desperately shaking a packet of Dreamies and pacing the garden like a lunatic out on day release.

As I finally accepted I needed to cancel my trip, quit my job and begin a national campaign to “Bring Harvey Home” I suddenly became aware of a familiar shadow in the corner of my eye. Harvey.
He sat in the kitchen, blearily peering out at me with an expression that quite clearly said “You’ve finally lost your fucking mind, you crazy she-hag.”
I didn’t care.
Hastily abandoning the Dreamies, I dashed inside, bundling him into my arms as he squirmed, shouting abuse and insisting that breakfast was far more important than dealing with my borderline insanity.

As I began dishing up their poison I came to the realisation that my trip was rather fruitless; I’d just aged ten years in mere minutes, what’s another year?
The Trio stared in agreement, hastily buried the disgusting shit in their bowls and strutted off to begin their day.

Happy Birthday Love Harvey

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