Today...

Well, where to start really.

At the beginning?

Yeah, works for me.

Today is Good Friday. Once upon a time, or so I'm supposed to believe, it was a day of immense religious significance and meant a great deal to a great many people. Now, in this day and age -- while I accept that there are still those, *somewhere*, that view it as a holy day -- it is little more than a day off from the tedium of work. A public holiday that comes complete with the added bonus of chocolate Easter eggs.

That's my take on it anyway. I'm not one to dwell on such things as religion. To each their own and all that. As far as I'm concerned, with the notable exception of the whole *sacrifice* thing, the Ancient Egyptians, with their worship of cats, was as close as the world is ever going to get to getting it right and that's all there really is to it.

In my humble, albeit possibly blinkered, feline view, of course.

Anyway, the fact that it is Good Friday is predominantly irrelevant. My poor humans, working to the beat of a different drum, don't get public holidays off and, the plethora of chocolate in the apartment aside, today, really, is just the same as every other day. Fall out of bed, groom, eat and depart.

Or not.

You see, today is not only Good Friday. It's also, in a wonderful example of multi-tasking, Friday the Thirteenth.

Now, I'm not saying I'm one for myths and superstitions. Quite frankly, I think they are nothing but a load of old bollocks. I mean, what's so fucking special about a *black* cat anyway? They're black and they blend into the dead of night, so what? Chris and Sam aren't exactly black, but I've seen them blend into the darkness. Does that mean if one of them crosses your path that you're going to become the victim of bad luck? Now, Mrs Fat Cow, who has a distinct penchant for pink, the brighter the better, is a perfect (well, begrudgingly I suppose she has to serve some purpose) contradiction to this wanky rule. If *she* lurches across your path then *bang* right there you've got bad luck. Merely catching sight of the hot pink tub-of-lard is enough to ruin anyone's day and by closing your eyes in a desperate attempt to rid yourself of the horrific image, you could blunder into *anything*. A tree. Oncoming traffic. Anything.

So, back to Friday the Thirteenth and why exactly it is that Chris is sprawled, semiconscious and on a vaguely uncomfortable looking angle, at the base of what I think has to be a double grave.

He doesn't look happy.

And I didn't even know it was possible to inject murmurs of discontent with so many expletives.

"Why anyone would dig a fucking whole this fucking big..." Mumble, mutter, grumble, groan.

It appears, in his somewhat irate state, that the fact that he was jogging through a cemetery is well and truly escaping his attention. I contemplate sharing this with him but decide against it. The last time I opened my mouth, to inquire as to why he didn't just call for help on his ever-present mobile phone, resulted in the remains of said phone being hurled in my general direction. It missed me entirely, but that's beside the point. If I wanted things thrown at me I'd go and pay the Hovel of Fat Cow a visit.

It's not my fault he landed on the phone before hitting his head on the shovel that was resting on the wall of the grave. Just as it isn't my fault he wasn't looking where he was going.

Nor is it my fault that, on the morning after a full night of torrential rain, he decided to break out the trainers and go jogging.

It is, however, Sam's fault.

Sam and his, "You know, I think you've put a little weight on," comment as he watched Chris sitting up in bed and eating an Easter egg.

Chris, apart from narrowing his eyes slightly and pulling the duvet up to his chin, gave no signs of taking any notice of his partner and continued to eat his chocolate. I thought, as I sat on the foot of the bed and glowered at the chocolate -- after last Easter, *never* again -- that that was going to be then end of it.

But no.

Early this morning, after Sam had bounded cheerfully off to the gym (why sleep in when you can pit your physical wits against some ugly lumps of metal?), Chris dragged himself out of bed and mooched immediately over to the mirror. There he peered at himself from every angle and sighed heavily. Not that I know why. He looked the same to me as he always has. Predominantly furless and, for a human, sleek. Personally, I think, for a man who I've seen morosely checking his head for grey hairs, Sam had a nerve picking on him and I fail to see why Chris took any notice.

He did however, take notice that is, and, for his troubles, he's now lying in a grave. Uninhabited, thankfully, but a grave nonetheless. If it was anybody else it would be hysterically funny. But it's Chris, so it's not funny. Well... Okay. It's a little bit amusing. If only Malone could see him now. He's never going to live this down. 'Top CI5 agent falls inelegantly into fresh grave... while jogging...'. It's going to go down in history.

And, to make things possibly worse, he's stuck. *Well* stuck. The walls are too high to spring (not that I think he's got a lot of spring in him at the moment) out of and there's nothing to grip on to. While I'm hardly a medical professional, I've seen enough episodes of E.R. and the like to know nasty sprains when I see them. Right ankle, left wrist. Icky looking lump already forming on his forehead and a severely bruised ego.

I'd like to help, really I would, but there's nothing I can do. Sam, no doubt feeling suitably self righteous after his work-out, is probably already at the office, drinking coffee and labouring under the belief that Chris has slept in. And, as much as it might pain me to admit this, Sam's our (note how I'm kindly sharing Chris' predicament...) only hope.

No funerals are scheduled for today and the last time I saw the cemetery caretaker was late last night. He had what appeared to be two bottles of scotch under his arm and, right now, I suspect he's most likely sleeping their off contents. According to Jojo, he's a right old lush who, whilst under the influence, is prone to dancing naked on tombstones. It is with no small degree of relief that I merely have to take Jojo's word on this. The caretaker, clothed, is not something I care to see at the best of times and I shudder to think about what the unclothed version would look like.

The cemetery, thanks to last night's rainfall, resembles a bit of a bog and there's not a human visitor for as far as I can see. They might come later but, what with more rain forecast, I kind of doubt it. I hope it doesn't rain. I don't think Chris would like it much. I also think he might sink if the mud he's lying in becomes any more sodden.

Silly boy. If only he'd been looking where he was going and not at his watch. From my vantage point at the time at the kitchen window, I didn't even know it was Chris. I just thought it was some idiot who, although he was there one second, wasn't the next. It wasn't until my stomach growled, reminding me that last night's unwanted food had sat there long enough and that it was time for a fresh batch, that I realised that Chris appeared to have disappeared. From this realisation I reluctantly accepted that perhaps the time had come to venture outside and that's when I discovered him.

I only had to follow the moans and the language that was slowly turning the air blue.

It's interesting how humans can manage to look miserable, pissed off, and ashamed at their own stupidity all at the same time. Actually, it's fascinating. Although Chris has to be in pain, I'd hazard a guess that he's dwelling far more on his pathetic predicament than where it hurts. I'm yet to decide though whether the delicate pink flush to his cheeks is from temper or whether he's blushing. Looking down at him, as he glares up at me and swears a bit more, I think that it's a combination of both temper *and* shame.

I'd jump down and join him, but there's no point. Not only would I have to land on him to cushion my fall, but then I'd be stuck as well. No thank you. I need my creature comforts. I need kitty litter. Sure, there's mud down there, but I can do without both the audience and the soggy dirt that would accumulate beneath my claws. I need my own space.

I also need to get out of here!

Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant. An already bad morning has just gotten worse.

I can't tell, over the racket, whether Chris' stopped moaning or not, but his eyes widen and he pales.

Trapped.

Trapped to *music*.

Little Miss Ex-Goth, the once black clad and morose offspring of the Bovines, has returned from her exchange to where ever she went and immediately discovered lurve. Ensnared by the fresh bloom of youthful attraction (aka - I'm so desperate for sex that I can forgive the acne and the braces with the small pieces of food trapped in them), she's turned her back on black eyeliner and the Sisters Of Mercy and embraced teenager-hood with all she's got.

It's quite disgusting.

I didn't mind her before the change. Sitting in the back garden, dressed head to toe in black and reading Sylvia Plath, she was sort of harmlessly amusing. Now, in her own, slightly (and only just) less flabby way, she's following in her parent's hoof prints and is becoming a menace to my peace and quiet. She's even discovered her mother's love of all things pink. It's truly disturbing.

She's even got herself a boyfriend. He, and if not for the fact that I had the misfortune of encountering him relieving himself against our fence (and even then, size wise, I have my doubts... I mean, not that it's any of my business of anything, but aren't they usually *bigger* than that?) I'd still be doubtful of this, almost defies description. The poor boy wears such baggy trousers that the crotch of them hangs down around his knees. I don't get it. Having seen it, I know for certain that it doesn't need that much space to reside in and don't understand his questionable fashion sense. And he wears his baseball cap backwards. I don't get that either.

I think he'd like to be Eminem when he grows up... Or, and this is where I get confused in respect to humans and their intelligence levels, would he have to get hit on the head a few times to be more like his hero?

Whatever. He's a spotty little git who, because he can't rap for shit (I've heard him... and then the whole street heard his prospective mother-in-law telling him to shut the fuck up or she was going to shove his baseball cap down his throat...), has delusions of being a DJ. DJ Stayer he calls himself, or 'Stay' to his friends... Not counting the invisible ones, I think he has a whole three friends who are privileged enough to call him this.

Chris has nicknamed him DJ Wanker, while Sam can hardly bring himself to acknowledge his existence. The closest Sam comes to accepting his presence in the street is to bet Chris whether he'll be locked up for drug possession or get her pregnant first. Chris is going for the pregnancy but, although this goes somewhat against my morals, I'm hoping that Sam wins. The mere thought of the pitty patter of proof of the continuing Fat Cow bloodline is enough to give me nightmares for months. What a, to put it mildly, detestable thought.

Anyway, DJ Wanker has installed a X-Tra bass heavy stereo in the Bovines for the weekend in order to perfect his *act*. This is not a noble sacrifice for the sake of true love on Mrs Fat Cow's behalf as she and her feral little husband have skulked off to Ibiza for a week. Having seen the bikini (which looked to be two queen size sheets cut into triangles) airing on the line, I can only hope everyone else on Ibiza is too drug fucked to take any notice of her.

Quite frankly, I don't think being kind to her daughter and her twat of a boyfriend had anything to do with her motives for allowing him to practice in her hovel. Nor would it be because he lives on an estate and the local gangs have threatened to do far worse things to him than shoving his baseball cap down his neck if he continues to assault their delicate eardrums with his noise.

No. It would be because she knows it will piss off everyone in the neighbourhood and she wouldn't be here to have to deal with it. I'm confident that the minute she lurches back in the front door, lobster red and peeling, she'll unplug the stereo and throw both it and him out the door. *If* I survive the racket, I hope I'm around to see it.

That's, of course, assuming DJ Wanker lives long enough to see her again.

Chris, the sound of his grinding teeth being the only noise I can make out over the music, looks as though he'd like to kill him. With his bare hands. Sprained wrist and all.

You see, DJ Wanker, for all his 'home-boy' style clothing and ridiculous hand gestures (they look like he's trying to flick snot off his fingers if you ask me), is a bit of top-forty, *pop* fan and it's this sort of music he bases his 'mix' on.

Right now, on *repeat* for the Goddess alone knows what reason, loud enough for the three neighbouring suburbs to hear, we have ATC and their catchy little ditty, 'Around The World'.

'La la la la la,' it goes -- and goes and goes and goes -- as Chris tries to grind his teeth down into his gums. Interestingly the repetitive electro-pop gives Chris the strength to mount an escape attempt and, with his good hand, he tries to scrabble out of the grave. Unfortunately, he fails miserably and immediately crashes back down. All he succeeds in doing is further bruising his butt by landing heavily on it and spreading, not that he needed it, more mud over himself.

My willpower faltering -- I really should stay with Chris because it's a nice things to do but, on the other paw, would really like to go inside and insulate myself from the noise under the duvet -- I decide to stay put because Chris looks so dejected that I think he'd be likely to cry if I left him.

'La la la la la...'

The things a cat does.

~*~

Friday the Thirteenth? Pah! I extend my tail to it.

All's well that ends well. And, in my furry little opinion, it's all ended purrfectly. Even Chris, Nurofen-ed up, sans mud, with his wrist and ankle bandaged, and with Sam in grovelling 'forgive me' mode, seems fairly content.

Not that everything went smoothly to begin with. Oh no. That would be asking just a tad too much. Sam took so long to decide to come and look for Chris that by the time he finally arrived on the scene it had started to spit with rain. Worse though, DJ Wanker had moved on from ATC to the --words very nearly fail me -- 'Hamster Dance' and it took every ounce of my willpower not to sprint away and hide. Personally, if I had my way I'd introduce the bloody hamsters to the *true* meaning of 'pet shop boys'...

Ahem. But anyway, my willpower paid off because, effectively, it was me that saved Chris. If I hadn't soldiered on with my suffering, Sam would never have ventured out the back door. He saw me though, huddled on the grass, rain dripping off my whiskers, and wondered just what the hell I was doing. So, really, Sam risked getting stray drops of rain on his suit for me...

What a nice boy he is.

Discovering Chris was simply an added bonus.

Now, I'd have thought that Sam, after he'd finished laughing and had dodged the handful of mud that was flung in his direction, would have been able to get Chris out of the hole. But no. Something to do with the 'depth' and the 'gradient' stopped him from trying and, still snickering, he went off to find the cemetery caretaker to help him. I'm apt to believe Chris' shouted theory more though, he didn't want to get muddy and would rather play the part of an interested onlooker while someone else did the hard work.

Around this point though, my starts to improve.

The caretaker, as I'd suspected, having celebrated the prospect of a day off by downing two bottles of cheap scotch, had passed out some time during the early hours of the morning and -- this is the bit that really tickles my fancy -- fallen 'splat' on top of Jojo.

Heh! What a scream.

While Chris was trapped in the grave, Jojo was trapped under the caretaker... who was snoring like a steam train. When the caretaker was dragged off him, Jojo looked decidedly flat. Even his whiskers were drooping and his muscles were so cramped that he weaved all over the place as though he'd just woken from anaesthetic. It was positively hysterical. I laughed so much that I had tears in my eyes and a stitch in my side.

Sam and his new friend laughed too. Well, that is they snickered politely while eyeing each other up. You see, arriving at the caretaker's door at the same time as Sam was his nephew who'd come to take him to chruch. Gary, the nephew, was a strapping looking individual who looked as though he made a living out of posing for pictures clad in nothing but a not always strategically placed fire hose. Tall, immaculately styled hair, perfectly applied fake tan, a smile that a dentist would orgasm over, and wonderfully toned under his too tight silver shirt and black trousers. He was, in other words, hot. And he knew it.

And, obviously liking what he saw, he wanted Sam to know it too.

The poor old caretaker should really consider himself lucky that they bothered to pick him up and dump him unceremoniously in bed at all. Not that I'm saying Sam was overly interested (well, knowing what's good for him, he'd better not have been), flattered, yeah, but Gary never stood a chance. Gary, however, wasn't aware of his guaranteed failure and, fluttering his -- I'm sure they were tinted -- eyelashes he proceeded to make a right git of himself.

He didn't even stop flirting when Sam hesitantly put emphasise on the word 'partner' when describing why he'd come to the caretaker's door in the first place. Nope. Nothing would stop him. He had a goal, and he was going for it. It was really rather pathetic to watch.

Ultimately though, Gary served some purpose and between them they managed to pull Chris out of his early grave. Chris, who by the time they returned to rescue him was nearing boiling point, flipped effortlessly over the mercury when Gary commented blandly that it was such a shame people saw fit to drink at this time of day.

Chris, hopping on one foot and looking like a mud monster, excelled himself. Although he had every right to rant and rave, he merely pretended to be so grateful for Gary's assistance that he just *had* to hug him. Needless to say this was simply a ploy to transfer as much mud as possible onto Gary's once pristine silver shirt. Gary, mortified at the state of himself and face to face with his competition, decided to swiftly take his leave. Stammering his farewells, he retrieved a business card (Gary - Artist's Muse) and, his fingers lingering a tad too long, placed it in Sam's pocket before undulating back to the caretaker's cottage.

Since then everything has fallen nicely into place.

Chris, while waiting for his pain killers to kick in, had a go at Sam about picking on his weight, and thus being the cause of this sorry mess, and then having the nerve to flirt with Gary. He was not impressed and maligned Sam the whole time he was cleaning him up and bandaging the sprains. Sam, contrite to the point of nearly being rendered speechless, stuttered his heartfelt apologies and all but begged for forgiveness. He even went so far as to make excuses for the weight comment -- it was only a joke, must have been an optical illusion caused by the way you were sitting -- and eventually, most likely as the Nurofen began to act, Chris folded.

By this time I think it was more a game than anything else. No longer trapped, wet and in pain, Chris' mood improved and Sam, not wanting to push his luck, is still going out of his way to be a good boy.

What's more, and this is the really good bit, Malone deigned to call by and visit. Obviously he was only checking to see for himself that the message Spencer had given him, in respect to why Chris hadn't been at work and where Sam had disappeared to, *wasn't* a bad joke, but it was good to see him nonetheless. Although I didn't to begin with, likening him to an officious old bulldog owner, I quite like Malone. The way he simply refuses to express shock is fascinating to watch. His expression even remained blandly nonplussed when the soundtrack of the still bopping hamsters penetrated the walls and caused Chris to bury his head under a cushion.

After ascertaining what exactly it was, and failing to see why he should shout, Malone put in a phone call to Spencer and, within two minutes, it stopped. No hamsters, no nothing. The joy of having a qualified computer geek on his staff meaning that the power to the Bovines, and the Bovines alone, could be cut without any difficulty whatsoever. Positively wonderful. I was so delighted that I smooched around his legs by way of thanks. Wimps that they are, neither Chris nor Sam seemed to breathe while I did this. The Goddess alone knows what they thought I was going to do and appeared to have forgotten that Malone and I get on as well as Malone gets on with anyone. Having spent many a hour asleep in his lap, after Backup had taken it upon herself to take me into work with her, I think I can say we're almost old friends.

Once he could hear himself, Malone, immensely begrudgingly, declared as Chris could neither run or shoot, he could have the Easter break off. In a surprising gesture of good will, or, failing that he couldn't stand the concept of having to see Sam mooching around by himself, he gave Sam the time off as well.

See? As I said before, all's well that ends well.

Barring getting a little wet and having my eardrums assaulted, my day's been quite good. Of course it's a shame that bad things had to happen to the others -- kind of -- but what does it matter now?

Jojo, steering clear of the caretaker until he sobers up (Monday would be my guess) is asleep on the floor near Sam's feet and I'm curled in the space between Chris' thigh and the arm of the sofa. Chris, in turn and as per usual, is leaning against Sam and they're both watching 'Chicken Run' (that Sam was sent out in the elements to buy). Sam, his logic chip only giving *so* much, is in a state of disbelief over the fact the chickens have teeth. The talking and escaping aspect isn't bothering him, but the teeth thing is. "Scarce as hens teeth? Not with this lot, that's for sure." Honestly, go figure.

The Bovines' is still gloriously silent and I think Chris has managed to convince Spencer to keep their power off until Monday at the earliest. Which means no more exclusive DJ Wanker mixes will thud through the walls and they'll have nothing to do over the weekend. Shame.

Oh well, if the rest of Easter continues like today did, I reckon it will be a good one. Nah, I *know* it will be a good one. Having, personally, survived Friday the Thirteenth unscathed, it can only get better.