What in the name of the Goddess is that cacophonous racket?

I wake with a start and immediately feel an indignant sense of annoyance settle over me.  Music -- and, I assume the lower class amongst us would call it thus -- is emanating from the Bovines at such a volume that I imagine I can even see the walls vibrating.

Chris shifts uneasily in his sleep, dislodging me from my precarious position on his hip, but doesn’t wake.  He most likely thinks the hammeringis simply in his head.

You see, poor Chris has the flu.

He thinks he’s dying.

*I* think he’s missed his true calling of being an actor…

Not that he isn’t ill, I don’t doubt that for a second - he looks and *smells* sick - I just happen to think he’s going a little overboard in the self-pity stakes, that’s all.

It’s not like he’s the only person to ever suffer from the flu, although by the way he’s carrying on, you could be excused for thinking that it was terminal.

Still, I’m not really complaining.  The coughing, sneezing, sniffing and moaning aside, I’ve enjoyed having him at home.  The weather’s been bitterly cold and wet, and having an all-but-comatose body to snuggle up to during the daytime has been rather wonderful.

Reluctantly hopping off the bed (I feel oddly protective of Chris when he’s sick and don’t like letting him out of my sight.  I find this emotion strange and have yet to justify why it is I feel this way...), I wander to the front of the house and peer out of the window.

From the noise, the exceptionally tacky balloons attached to the front gate -- oh look!  That formation of balloons resembles male genitalia… oooohh…  How risqué!  These people are so *pitiful* -- and from the copious amounts of cheap, ugly cars that probably haven’t been washed since they rolled off the production line decades ago, I deduce that the Fat Cows are having a party.

Fabulous.

Fucking fabulous in fact.

The last party our feral neighbours held seemed to last for days. Fortunately for Chris, he missed it.  I, on the other paw, didn’t, and made the mistake of going next door for a closer look.  Before I knew it, I was grabbed by some inebriated moron who thought that not only was I an infant, but that I also - apparently - needed to be thrown in the air and caught ... All in time to a repetitive refrain of ‘koochie koochie koo’.  Thankfully, this was short lived.  A well-aimed claw to the idiot’s proboscis -- it was so huge that I couldn’t have missed it -- swiftly rectified his delusion of all infants being cute and cuddly and I managed to escape.

To my utter disgust, I realise that the party is no *mere* party.  Oh, no -- surprise, sur-fucking-prise -- it’s worse than that.  The House of Fat Cow are having a *costume* party.  Bored with looking crappy in their normal, mundane life, they obviously felt the need to find an excuse to look even crappier.

If this is truly the case, then they have every right to feel proud.  It’s as if a freak show has taken up residence in their front yard.

A man in a Batman costume adds more ammunition to my theory of applying the death penalty to retailers who sell Lycra to overweight people.  Watching him stagger around, I can’t help but think that the pathetic creature would have made a wonderful Quasimodo - *without* the assistance of make-up.

An exceptionally misguided woman (well, I *think* it’s a woman) who appears to think -- *wrongly* -- that her rotund figure is ideally suited to a Playboy Bunny outfit, lurches up the fence and throws up into our yard.

For reasons best known to herself, she finds this incredibly amusing and starts to bray like a deranged horse.

I’d like nothing more than to be able to put her out of her obvious misery.

"You have got to be fucking joking..."

A walking, snuffling duvet suddenly appears behind me and whispers in stunned disbelief.

// I *wish*. //

Chris shakes his head slowly and blinks a few times.  The expression on his face is priceless - a mixture of utter horror and abject fascination.

"Please tell me I’m still hallucinating..."

Following Chris’ gaze, it takes all my feline poise not to recoil in repulsion when I realise what he’s staring at.

// Nope.  Not hallucinating.  Sorry. //

Mrs Fat Cow has *excelled* herself.  She looks like a dugong attempting to masquerade as a mermaid.  Floaty bits of waspy chiffon in no way cover her rolls of flab and I honestly didn’t know they made sequined bras in *that* size.  Now that I know they do, I certainly wish they didn’t...

// Where’s a harpoon when you need one? //

From the way he’s glaring at this less than exemplary vision, I think Chris feels exactly the same way.

Sighing melodramatically, Chris trudges off in the direction of the kitchen. The duvet flaps around his feet as he shuffles and I half suspect he’ll trip himself over.  Thankfully, he makes it to the kitchen in one piece and, with no small amount of apprehension, I turn my attention back to the circus outside the window.

I’m not naïve.  For a cat, I think I’ve seen rather a lot and am somewhat worldly.  Still, I never - not in my wildest dreams - thought I’d have the misfortune of encountering twenty or so drunken humans attempting to do the Can-Can to ‘Copacabana’.  The sight honestly defies description and in order to keep my tea down, I turn away from the window and wander off in search of Chris.

I find him huddled on the sofa about to swallow two ‘cold and flu’ tablets. I know for a fact that he isn’t due more for another hour, but I can’t say I blame him for taking them earlier.

Actually, after witnessing the Bovine spectacle in his current state, I think that Chris is doing remarkably well.  Personally I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to down a bottle of scotch in an attempt to obliterate the horror.

Hopping up on the sofa, I burrow under the duvet and curl up under Chris’ knees.  To my delight, my cocoon offers some insulation from the atrocious ‘hits, misses and complete shit from the Seventies, Eighties and Nineties’ that is polluting the night air from next door and I settle down happily.

Whatever the miracle ingredient is in Chris’ pills, it seems to kick in just as the party begins to rev up.  I can tell this from my dark cave, because Chris goes from sitting deathly still to virtually twitching in barely controlled anger in time to the music.

Suddenly, in a burst of energy, Chris bounds off the sofa and my cave collapses around me.  Wriggling, I poke my head out from under the duvet just in time to see him disappear into the bathroom.

Curious as to what it is he thinks he’s doing, I jump off the sofa and meander after him.  The bathroom door’s open ­ foolish boy must have been in such a rush that he forgot to shut it ­ and, sauntering into the room, I jump up onto the toilet seat (naturally, checking first to see whether it’s down …  I will never, for as long as I live, forget what happened the time I didn’t check…) and peer at Chris as he gets undressed.

He peers back at me and snickers.  "Perhaps Sam’s right after all.  You *are* a pervert."

// Am *not*. //

Can I help it if, after witnessing the Bacchanalian exhibition of the Fat Cows and their ilk, I need some beauty in my life?

And, begrudgingly, for a non-Siamese, I have to admit that Chris is rather beautiful.  He is, by far, a superior specimen of his species and I feel he’s definitely worthy of my company.

I stare at Chris and I swear my unwavering gaze unnerves him because he blushes as he turns away from me and gets into the shower.

// Don’t worry, dear.  It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. //

Not only that, but I’ve seen it bigger as well...

Humans are so peculiar.  We cats have it far better than them.  Take grooming for example…  How annoying it would be to have to find one of these cubicle things with the water nozzle, take ones outer layer off and only then begin to wash?  I’d go mad.  If I feel dirty then I want to be able to rectify the problem then and there.

Purring contentedly, I watch with interest as Chris washes himself.  He doesn’t end up sitting on the floor of the shower cradling his head in his hands, as he did the other day, and I take this as a good sign.  He must be feeling a little better.

Chris finally gets out of the shower. I jump off the toilet seat and pad around the bathroom waiting impatiently for him to dry himself.  I’m hanging out for the towel to get tied around his waist so I can rub around his legs and tickle his knees with my tail.  For some -- *possibly* perverse -- reason, I get a quaint little thrill from this.  I have, however, learnt a couple of things in respect to this action.  Firstly, smooching around Chris’ legs when he’s shaving is not a good idea.  It’s amazing how tetchy the tiniest of razor nicks can make him.  Secondly, it is by far preferable to wait until he’s dry, as otherwise I don’t so much as glide along, as get momentarily stuck.

I indulge in my passion *just* in time. I’ve barely managed to lap Chris twice before he produces the shaver and I have to reluctantly retreat.

// Spoilsport.  Hang on…  Where do you think you’re going? //

This is getting interesting.  Those tablet things must be truly amazing. One minute he’s dying and the next he’s obviously getting ready to go out.

Go out…

And leave me to suffer the party alone?

Not fucking likely.

My head starts to spin at the possibilities.  If Chris has any idea what’s good for him, he won’t leave me here alone.  The way I see it, if I have to suffer then he has to suffer.  It’s only fair.

Finished shaving (and, for reasons I can never quite deduce, making his hair stick up on end), Chris leaves the bathroom and I follow him, moodily.  As he’s about to turn into the bedroom, I get overwhelmed by an urge to sharpen my claws on the carpet, and not being one to deny my urges, proceed to do so.

Once I’m satisfied that my claws feel a lot better than they did, I sit down, and look up to find Chris glowering at me.

// Oh.  I’m sorry.  I’m not supposed to do that, am I?  Ooops. //

Just like you’re not supposed to *leave* me.

// By the way, that’s warning number one… //

Getting up, I stalk past Chris and hop onto the bed.  He sighs as I pass him but wisely doesn’t say anything.  Entering the room behind me, Chris starts to get dressed and my ire rises another notch.  On his way to get something out of the cupboard, Chris leans over the bed to pat me, but I wriggle out of his reach and present my back to him.  He sighs again and makes an effort to placate me.

"I’m going to Sam’s…  I can’t stand the racket and I don’t think Malone would be overly rapt if I went out there and shot most of them…"

// He mightn’t, but I would. //

Ha!   I *knew* it!  He’s leaving me!  That’s it!

// Watch closely, Chris.  Here comes warning number 2… //

Standing up, I stretch, dig my claws into the sheet and then saunter over to the bedside table.  Checking over my shoulder to ensure that Chris is watching - he is - I swiftly bat the half-empty glass of water that is on the table, and wail as it clutters to the floor.  Slightly miffed that it doesn’t break, but content nonetheless with the puddle of water seeping into the carpet, I turn around and stare at Chris.

He stares back for a moment before slowly shaking his head.  "Is that your less than subtle way of telling me that, unless I either stay or take you with me, you are going to destroy the place?"

// For a human, I must say that you understand feline very well.  Now, what are you going to do about it? //

My searing gaze doesn’t waver from Chris and he starts to fidget with the buttons on his shirt.  "Um…  Well, I can’t stay here…  But… Um…  I don’t think Sam would be exactly delighted to see you…"

// And you appear to have forgotten his last words to you when he dropped you off the other day... //

Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but, "Now, stay away from me until you’re germ free," is not a charming way to say farewell.  Nor can it really be translated as, ‘I’d be delighted to see you, please come around…’.

Chris stands in the doorway for so long that I begin to imagine he is having a hard time differentiating between the risks associated with leaving me here versus the possible wrath of Sam.

Common sense wins out.

"Okay!  Fine.  You can come with me, but, *please* behave yourself… I’m going to look dodgy enough arriving on his doorstep with a cat, let alone if the cat decides to go berserk in his apartment…"

// Not a problem! //

I’m purring even before Chris walks over to the bedside table and picks me up.  I’m so happy to be leaving the aural equivalent of Bovine hell that my purr doesn’t even slip as Chris juggles me from arm to arm as he pulls his coat on and hunts around for the keys.

We make it to the front gate before we are accosted by a refugee from the cheapest, nastiest, costume shop London has to offer.  The *individual* is dressed to look like an officer of the Metropolitan Police, and this seems to offend Chris even before the imbecile opens his mouth.

"Look!  A warlock and his family!"

"The word’s ‘familiar’."

// If looks could kill, PC Twit, you’d be nothing but a bad memory. //

"Huh?"

"Witches and warlocks have familiars, not *family’s*."

"Huh?"

"Fa-mill-e-ar."

// Stop humouring him, Chris.  Can’t you see you’re making his microscopic excuse for a brain hurt? //

PC Twit decides to change tack.  "You a real warlock?"

"No, and you should consider yourself lucky I’m not.  If I was, then your legs would suddenly be looking exceptionally appetising to a French restaurant."

"Huh?"

"Because I’d turn you into a frog!  Now, will you please fuck off?"

He staggers back a little and peers blearily at us.  "I…  I don’t like you…"

"Fuck, that’s it!  My life no longer has any meaning!  Farewell cruel world! I’m going to find the nearest pier and drive off it!  Now, get the fuck out of my way before I have to shoot you."

A quick flash of the ever-present gun convinces PC Twit that maybe, just maybe, the man with the cat means what he says, and he lurches off.

Chris mutters under his breath, "Thank Christ," and we finally make it to the car.