Okay. Speaking for myself, I'm over summer. Over. Over. Over. Oh yeah. Big time over. Natural heat is just not on. Central heating, electric blankets, saunas, laps, yeah, okay, wood fires at a push - that's it for acceptable forms of heat. Natural warmth courtesy of the big glowing ball in the sky is only bearable in very specific forms. A toasty warm grave *can* be a reasonable place to grab a quick nap, as can a spot of sun warmed floorboards. On the whole though, I'm just as happy with central heating.

Central heating, unlike the nasty sun, you can control. It gets too warm and someone gets up and turns down the temperature. Good stuff. Works for me. Come back winter. Come back snow, sleet, hail and floods, all is forgiven.

I hate summer.

Hot, sticky, frayed tempers, sweat, flies, Mr & Mrs Fat Cow wearing far, *far* too little, Chris whinging, Sam giving every impression of being some sort of mutant by constantly remaining cool, calm and collected, Jojo spending far too much time indoors because he claims that the sun baked grass hurts his poor itty-bitty delicate paws.

Pah.

It sucks.

The air-conditioning that Chris had installed after being stuck in London for its ten days of unbearable heat last summer helps, but I can't say I'm a huge fan of it. It ruffles my fur and the hum of it operating disrupts my sleep. Still, I suppose it's okay. Preferable to the freakin' heat at any rate. And it stops Chris from whinging when he's inside too. Which is a plus. Rude people have been known to say that Siamese whinge (which is complete and utter bollocks. We never open our mouths unless we've got something valid to say) but I reckon they should cop an earful of Chris in full swing. Then they'd really know what whinging was.

It's on now. The air-conditioner. Actually, the Goddess knows why I felt compelled to make note of that fact. If the temperature dares rise over 30 degrees then it's on 24/7. Outside it's Sahara and inside it's Arctic. Jojo loves it. Right now he's sprawled out in front of the fridge on the kitchen floor. Not having lost his winter weight he looks like a beached whale. I told him this, of course, and he merely responded by flicking his tail dismissively at me. It was a disappointing reaction to say the least, one I blame on the heat.

I'm bored.

Jojo's comatose, Chris and Sam, enjoying a rare day off, have set up camp directly under the air vents in the living area, and I'm slowly going out of my mind. Although it's nearly lunchtime they've only just ventured out of the bedroom and still look half asleep. Chris in particular. Sam might be wide awake for all I know. I can't see him behind the piece of the paper he's got his nose buried in. Chris on the other paw is just draped limblessly over the sofa, one hand toying with the remote for the stereo, the other hanging limply by his side. His eyes closed, he looks half dead.

He also, to my mind at least and contrary to the appreciative gleam I saw in Sam's eyes before the paper was lifted and he all but disappeared, could have put a little more effort into getting dressed this morning. I mean, would it have killed him to put a top on? I don't think so. And I don't care if they're D&G and probably cost more than the whole of Mrs Fat Cow's wardrobe put together, I'm not too sure that three quarter length khaki pants are a good look. *Especially* seeing as he either didn't try them on or was having a fat day when he bought them. Riding low had nothing on it. And, again, like the whole top deal, I'm sure underwear wouldn't have been *too* much of an ask. There are times when I think it wouldn't hurt Chris to take a leaf out of his anally retentive partner's book. Sam, well, what I can see of him, looks as though he's just strolled straight out of a fashion spread in Esquire. Neatly pressed jeans, polished shoes, white linen shirt tucked in. I have this feeling that Sam could walk away from a plane crash and he'd still look fresh.

Oh well. At least neither of them are wearing saggy Speedo's. Like Mr Fat Cow was yesterday. The man has no shame. He was out in the front yard and everything. I didn't hang around long enough to see if what little remained of the elastic held. Horrible man. Oh. And the less said about Mrs Fat Cow in her leopard print bikini the better. Honestly. The pair of them simply defy description. You'd think by now that their antics would have stopped surprising me, but no. Of course not. That would be too easy. Thank Bast that they're out today. Don't know where they've gone and don't care. Hearing their piece of crap Volkswagen cough and splutter its way into life this morning was like music to my ears. Even better, the way I heard it bottom at the end of the street told me that they were both squashed inside. Wherever they've gone I hope they stay there. For a very long time. Hell, for ever would be good.

Stretching, I roll over onto my back and yawn daintily. From my position on top of the dining table I can see the dying grass of the cemetery shimmering in the heat. The poor caretaker waters and waters it but he's not succeeding in keeping it green. I think it's breaking his heart. Personally I don't know why he doesn't just invest in a dozen or so cans of green spray paint. From a distance it's not like anyone would know any better anyway.

Boring.

Woo-hoo! Doorbell.

"That'd be for you," Chris mutters, giving no impression of dragging himself into an upright position.

"Hate to break it to you Chris, but this is your apartment," Sam replies from behind the sports section. He too gives no indication of getting up to answer the door.

"Ah, so that'd explain why my ass is sticking to *your* leather sofa then," Chris retorts, casually pointing the remote in the direction of the stereo and upping the volume. I don't know whether it's the sudden increase in volume or Chris' sarcasm that gets Sam to move. Either way, Chris wins and, with a final, annoyed sounding rustle of the paper, Sam clambers up. Once the paper is folded and returned to its rightful section -- and the doorbell has rung two more times -- Sam finally, after shooting a scowl in Chris' direction, makes his way downstairs.

While I have no doubt that Chris is just being lazy, he does have a point. Kinda. Given the amount of his stuff that's slowly but surely taking over our home I don't really know why Sam bothers to keep his own apartment. He took offence to Chris's sofa so he hauled his own here. The tea towels in the kitchen weren't up to his stringent standard so he brought over his. I keep waiting to wake up one morning to find all of Sam's stuff intermingled with Chris' and it'll just be a done deal. Given that Sam's part of the furniture anyway it's not exactly like it would surprise me.

Smiling smugly to himself, Chris lowers the volume again and stretches languidly. The CD that's playing is 'Once More With Feeling', the soundtrack to the all singing, all dancing episode of Buffy. Sam hates it. Backup gave it to Chris for Christmas. I'm yet to work out whether this was because she knows he's a Buffy fan or because she knows that Sam isn't. Let's face it, Sam could have been annoying her at the time. I mean, it makes sense to me. Surely it's not just me he's capable of annoying.

I'm contemplating getting off the dining table and going to investigate what Sam's up to at the front door when he returns. He has a guest in tow. I nearly fall off the table in shock as she lumbers into the room. Opening his eyes, Chris nearly falls off the sofa. Lurching into a sitting position, he surreptitiously hauls up his pants and shoots Sam an inquiring look. His back to our surprise guest, Sam rolls his eyes and shrugs. "What was I supposed to do?" he mouths.

Shaking his head, Chris plasters a cheery expression on his face and stands up. "What can we do for you?" he queries, guiding Shakaar (AKA Martha), the very heavily pregnant and decrepit looking offspring of the Fat Cows to the sofa.

There's now a Fat Cow sitting sobbing on Sam's beige leather sofa. It's official. I've now seen everything.

Shakaar, wannabe homegirl and girlfriend of wannabe rapper, Stay, looks like something out of a horror movie. Pregnancy doesn't suit her. I've seen pregnant women before. On the television they're always well dressed and rosy cheeked. Shakaar however is demonstrating neither of these two attributes. Why anyone would feel compelled to make boob tubes and hipster pants for those in the late stages of pregnancy escapes me. It really does. Her belly, exposed in all of its glory, looks like a beanbag. Tears run down her face, making her mascara run and her eyes are all red and puffy. More than ever I see why Chris and Sam shun the female form. Looking at her I feel a peculiar mixture of pity and disgust. Stay well and truly shoulda kept it in his pants.

"It's... It's Ashanti!" Shakaar wails, wiping her nose on her bare arm, causing Sam to flinch and run for a box of tissues. "She... She got over the fence this morning and now she's out in the cemetery!"

"Ashanti?" Chris looks blank. Noticing Shakaar's eyes looking him up and down his expression changes to one of discomfort and he folds his arms across his chest. "Um... Who or what is Ashanti?"

"She's my chicken," Shakaar sniffles, taking a tissue from Sam and blowing into it loudly.

"Oh," Chris mutters, adding under his breath, "of course."

Indeed. Of course. I know who Ashanti is. Stupid bird. The self-congratulatory racket it makes when it's pushed out an egg really bugs me. Talk about get over it already. If I could get my paws on whoever the idiot was who told Shakaar that she should only eat free range eggs while pregnant I'd shred them, I really would.

"And?" Sam prompts, looking worried as Shakaar drops her used tissue onto the sofa. "What do you want us to do about it?"

"I want you to go and get her for me," Shakaar replies, turning on the waterworks to full effect and blinking tear filled eyes hopefully at Sam. "Mum and dad have gone out for the day and... and I don't know who else to turn to!"

"What about... ah... Stay?" Chris sighs, looking none too impressed at the thought of venturing outside. "Couldn't he come and help?"

Shakaar shakes her head, still sniffling pitifully. "He's doing a double shift at Mc Donald's and he won't be free for hours. *Please*. I..." Sniff, snuffle, sob. "... I want Ashanti back. I'm worried about her!"

Chris rubs his temples and looks to Sam, who shrugs in resignation. "Okay. Fine," he mutters, "I suppose we'll go and have a look for your chicken. Does it bite or peck or whatever the hell it is that chickens do?"

"Oh no!" Shakaar exclaims, instantly cheering up now that she knows she's got her way. "Ashanti's lovely. She wouldn't hurt a fly. You've just gotta catch her and return her to her run. Really, that's all. I'll be ever so grateful."

"Mmm..." Sam mutters. "Come on Chris, let's get this over and done with then. Marth... ah... Shakaar, do you want to stay here while we go and find Ashanti? Hopefully we won't be long."

"Love to, thanks," Shakaar replies, kicking off her platform sandals and settling herself on the sofa.

Looking as though he's biting his tongue, Sam starts to head over towards the back door while Chris makes a quick detour through the bedroom. Once he's returned wearing hastily pulled on trainers and an undone black shirt, I leap gracefully off the table and follow him out the door. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Jojo opens an eye as we pass him but that's it. I consider telling him to get off his ass, that he's about to miss something potentially good, but don't bother. If he wants to sloth around all day then that's his look out.

Chris moans as he steps outside. "I'm having a great deal of difficulty coming to terms with all of this, I hope you realise," he comments drily, shielding his eyes and gazing out across the cemetery. "Nowhere in my plans for the day did I have chasing a freakin' chicken around."

"Tell me about it," Sam replies with a sigh. "You saw her though. What else could we have done? God knows the last thing we want is for her to go into early labour over the stress of a lost chicken."

"Don't even joke about it," Chris mutters, barely suppressing a shudder. "Urgh. What an awful thought. Can you imagine what the poor unfortunate baby will look like? They're both scary enough looking as it is. How old is she again? Sixteen?"

Sam shakes his head, his expression pained. "I don't want to think about it," he states flatly. "I don't want to think about any of it. Come on, let's get on with it. You go left and I'll go right." Pausing, he looks down at me and points at Chris. "You can go left too."

// Like I wanted to go with you anyway. // Sheesh. As if.

"C'mon Mish, let's get this show on the road then," Chris murmurs, unenthusiastically heading off into the cemetery. After carefully extending my tail to Sam I follow him.

It's so amusing trailing along after Chris that the nasty heat doesn't even bother me. When he's not wasting his breath quietly calling out, "Here chickie, chickie, chickie," he's hauling up his pants and swearing under his breath. After only ten or so minutes he starts to turn a delicate pink colour too. I don't know whether this is the because he's getting sunburnt or because his temper is beginning to get the better of him. Needless to say we don't see any sign of Ashanti. Not so much as a stray feather. In fact the only other sign of life we see is an elderly woman dressed in all black kneeling in front of a grave. She takes one look at Chris and crosses herself before beating as hasty a retreat as her Zimmer frame will allow her.

"This sucks," Chris mutters, leaning against an elaborately carved stone angel and wiping the sweat from his brow. "How do you think she'd like it if I offered to just buy her a new chicken?"

A shrill whistle piercing the air stops me from replying and we both turn to face the direction it came from. Sure enough, there's Sam standing on the opposite side of the cemetery, waving his arms around triumphantly.

"The great chicken hunt continues," Chris mumbles, sighing and waving dismissively at Sam. "Yeah, yeah. I'm coming."

Sam, I note as we reach him, still looks all pristine and sweat free. It's unnatural. While he raises an eyebrow at Chris' appearance he wisely doesn't say anything and points over to where a funeral is taking place. "I caught sight of her on the other side of the mourners," he states softly. "She appears to be making a nest on one of the older, more unkempt graves. All being well she'll be able to catch her. We just have to get across there without interrupting the funeral."

"This just keeps getting better and better," Chris replies, shaking his head. "Check 'em out, Sam. It's a fucking biker funeral! If they catch us skulking around they'll try to tear us from limb to limb."

"Tell me about it," Sam mutters. "Why do you think I'm still standing here trying desperately to work out what to do? By the looks of things they've only just started too."

"Great," Chris sighs. "I'll tell you now, I'm not prepared to wait until they've finished. The last biker funeral that took place here went all night. Instead of going back to their club rooms or a pub for the wake they decided to just hold it here. The caretaker almost had a coronary from picking up all the Jim Beam cans."

Biker funerals are oddly fascinating. Especially the floral tributes. I've seen Harley Davidson emblems made out of carnations and even the Jim Beam logo made out of red and white roses. I don't know how today's mourners are able to remain standing. Apart from the priest the fifty or so mourners standing around the grave are dressed from head to toe in black leather. Even the women. Well, I assume some of them are women. It's a bit hard to see from here. Either that or they simply all look alike. A lot of them even have their helmet under their arms. I swear I can smell them from here and don't even want to think about the amount of sweat they're producing between them. Litres and litres spring all too readily to mind.

"What do you suggest we do then?" Sam queries. "Sneak around tombstones and hope for the best?"

"Sneak," Chris agrees, hauling up his pants and setting off before doubts get the better of him.

Not wanting to get any closer to the sweaty smelly bikers than I have to, I hop up onto the top of a tombstone and settle down to keep watch. Honestly, I wish I had a camcorder. Watching Chris and Sam hiding behind tombstones is close to one of the funniest things I've seen in a long time. Even funnier though is, close to thirty minutes later, watching them retrace their steps with Sam clutching a severely pissed off looking chicken to his chest. He no longer looks pristine. In fact he looks like he's been pulled through a hedge backwards. Chris doesn't look much better. Invisible steam pours out of both of their ears. A stray feather or three clings to Sam's fringe, making him look slightly like a yokel with ideas above his station. A couple of nasty looking scratches mar Chris chest. His knees also show signs of serious grain stains. The closest I can get to a silver lining for the whole mess is that bikers remain oblivious to their presence.

Sam glowers at me as he passes. "Not a word, Mishy, not a damn word," he warns, spitting a feather out of his mouth.

Reaching me, Chris picks me up and sighs. I refrain from telling him that he could do with a shower and cling contentedly to his shoulder. A biker glances over and stares at us, a look of astonishment on his hairy face. Looking down I realise that it's not me he's staring at. If Chris's pants slip any further down he's going to be at risk of being arrested for indecent exposure.

Once Ashanti is safely, her ears ringing from a colourful mouthful of expletives from Sam, ensconced in her chicken house we slowly make our way back inside. Jojo is still dead to the world. If he's lucky I'll tell him of our exploits when he finally deigns to wake up.

Shakaar too is fast asleep, her belly almost sitting higher than the back of the sofa. Her snoring is worse than Sam's. I think of the little Shakaar and Stay inside of her and feel ill. I hope they don't name the poor creature after one of their favourite rappers. The DNA roaming around its body will be enough of a kicker without getting lumped with a shit name as well.

Putting me down, Chris strips off his shirt and wipes his face on the back of it. "Now what?" he mutters blandly.

"How about a shower then going out for lunch?" Sam suggests hopefully. "How does that sound?"

Chris nods. "Perfect," he replies, wandering towards the bedroom, Sam's eyes glued to his backside. "I don't care where we go so long as they serve chicken. I don't know about you but I *so* feel like chicken at the moment."

Sam laughs and trails after Chris. Not wanting to remain in close proximity to Shakaar, I follow too. Having had enough excitement for one day I plan to sprawl out over the bed and stay there until Shakaar's sloped off back to her own hovel and everything's returned to our very own version of normal.

Whatever that might be.