Of Cats, Apples and Teapots... And the Carpet Cleaning That Follows!

Monday morning started off earlier then expected, as our cat Bast managed to sneak into the kitchen, climb on the counter and to try making a cup of tea for breakfast. Figuratively speaking, of course. What woke us up was the sound of breaking glass, falling spoons and a crazy cat having hysterics. Michael's first thought was that we're being robbed so, ignoring all those movies the folks from the Colonies make and being the hero that he is, he rushed out of the bedroom to deal with the intruder. I, on the other hand, was ready to call the police, before something wicked this way came. Fortunately we didn't come to that. The supposed burglar was identified as Bast the Cat, as we jokingly call her every once in a while, and the terrible mess - as kitty weirdness.

You think I'm over exaggerating? Well, then you've never had a cat before! They are as spoiled, moody and dominant as a rich heiress, the only real difference being that the latter can at least clean after herself. Usually, that is. Paris Hilton's abilities to do anything else, then spend her family's fortune, are questionable.

Lifestyle of the rich and famous, right?

Back on topic, I got out of bed to find a pretty irritated Michael, a guilty looking Bast, and a ruined kitchen-carpet. I assessed the situation, took in the fact that it's barely 6:30 am and the first rays of the sun have yet to paint the dark sky in brighter colors, and made the decision to ignore the mess, till it goes away. Or, which is more likely, until I call a carpet cleaning company and politely ask them to take an hour of their time to stop by the house for a clean sweep, a cup of tea and some apples, the color of rubies, brought from the countryside.

Of course, as with most good plans, this one did not last longer than 30 seconds, as in that moment Mr. and Miss Picksby started knocking frantically on out front door, one holding a coiled newspaper, for the little good it would do him, and the other - an old broomstick. Well, at least that one made sense! Though I always picked Miss Picksby for more of a rolling-pin type of girl. If I do say so myself.

Being the brute that she is, Miss Picksby pushed Michael away from the door and stormed past him, ready to smack everything that moved or crossed her path with that broomstick of hers. She did not succumb to my assurances that the house is burglars-free and as safe as it could be. A "hostage situation", she called it. We were being held against our will and were afraid to admit that we're not alone in the house. How do you reason with a woman, who doesn't listen to anything else, except for her own voice?

You offer her tea, of course.

When Miss Picksby finally accepted to sit down and take in a deep breath, I let out the breath I'd been holding up till now, and decisively pulled the broomstick out of her hands. She protested, of course, but was too busy scolding at Michael's boxers to actually fight for her "weapon". Finally, my sweetheart blushed and went up to put on some pants. Mr. Picksby, who's as peculiar as his sister's scary, let out a nervous chuckle and settled in a chair near the sink. He's a rather stout man, with small eyes and greying hair, and carries himself like a puppy, that's been kicked one too many times.

I swear to you that if I had any proof that Miss Picksby was harassing him at home, I'd have called... someone. But I fear that Mr. Picksby's main problem was Mr. Picksby himself. And his lack of self-confidence.

Maybe he should spent a little more time with Michael. Who knows, it might do him some good after all!

While I was lost in thought, Miss Picksby came up with two life-altering decisions. 1st one was that I will call her carpet cleaning London-based company, as it was the best and cheapest one that our lovely capitol had to offer. The 2nd one involved Michael, his legs, and the presence of leg-hair...

Needless to say, I felt exasperated by the time those two left. And my sweet Michael...

Let's just say that he'd rather deal with a burglar, then with Miss Picksby. Who wouldn't, really?

Who wouldn't?