Numbers not really being my forte, I’ve lost count of the amount of times that Sam has shaken his head and looked confused in the last couple of hours.

Right now, as Chris shares, in explicit detail, a few derogatory facts of life with an inanimate object, he’s doing it again.

"Are you *sure* this is a good idea?"

"If you ask me that *one* more time I am going to have no choice but to kill you."  Chris deftly avoids the question and continues waging a battle with the new home-entertainment unit that appears to have materialised just in time for this evening’s proceedings.  So far, said electrical equipment appears to be winning the war.

Whatever Chris thinks he is doing is obviously wrong as the large-screen television is going berserk.  Stations flicker past my eyes so fast that I barely have time deduce what the are before they are gone again.  It’s like playing a game of recognition.  BUPA advert! Tennis!  Football!  Your guess is as good as mine!  Neighbours!  Ford commercial!  No idea in the slightest!  Basketball!  X Files!

For a moment, Sam appears to be as transfixed by the flashes of images as I am, but then he blinks and sighs.  "Do you have any idea what you are doing? Would you like a hand?"

"No!  I can fly jet fighters and I refuse point blank to be beaten by some poxy home-entertainment system."  Chris is speaking through clenched teeth and is waving a booklet the size of a magazine around.  "It would just be nice if they’d let someone other than a hare-brained idiot translate this mess from its original hybrid of every Asian language known to man into English."  He jabs angrily at a switch with his finger and suddenly everything seems to right itself.  The television stops on the movie Titanic, just as the boat cracks in half and I’m reminded of my wonderful dream of Mrs Fat Cow sinking with it.

"What did you do?"  Sam seems quite amazed.

Chris gets off the floor and, wiping his hands on his jeans, backs away from the unit.  "I have absolutely no idea, but not wanting to jinx it, think I’ll leave it well enough alone for the time being."

The Titanic continues to sink it front of me and narrowing my eyes at it, I wail at the television.

// Sink you bastard! //

Seeing as my feral neighbour is obsessed by it, I can’t help but have a pathological loathing for the movie and would rather watch grass grow than suffer it.

"Mishy’s right, does this crap have to be on?"  Sam glowers at the screen and gropes amongst the numerous remote controls until he manages to grab the one for the television.

// Sam, you never cease to amaze me. //

Truly, I’m impressed at the way he appears to be finally picking up feline. Aptitude for languages or not, I’d been beginning to have my doubts about Sam ever cottoning onto the finer points of my language and feel that it is my duty to compliment him.

"Yeah…  I suppose," Chris replies slowly and looks anxiously at the unit, "But if it stuffs up then you’d better get out of my way exceptionally quickly…"

"It’ll be fine."

Strangely, Sam doesn’t look anywhere near as confident as he sounds and he pushes the ‘off’ button on the remote hesitantly.  For a split-second both hold their breath before sighing in relief as the screen goes blank and everything else remains looking like it should.

"Told you it would be fine."

"Mmm…  Lucky for you."  Chris grins.  "Tonight’s going to be great, isn’t it?"

"That’s one way of looking at it.  Personally, I’ve resigned myself to it going to be an *experience*."

Me?  I think they’re both right.  If nothing else, I’m looking forward to seeing how it turns out.  More to the point, I’m looking forward *immensely* to seeing how the House of Fat Cow react to it.  With any luck it will be the final straw that breaks the poor unfortunate camel’s back and they just might pack up their hovel and move to pastures greyer.

I can but hope.

Chris’ grin broadens.  "Come on, Sam, I’m doing this for all the right reasons.  It’s for the greater good."

"Oh!  So that’s what it is for!  Silly me.  There I was thinking it was simply because you wanted to play mind games -- which, incidentally, seeing as that implies they have minds to begin with, is most likely a triumph of hope over experience -- with your neighbours.  I do apologise."

"They deserve it.  It’s like living next-door to a more feral version of Al and Peg Bundy."

Sam looks blank. "Who?"

"’Married with Children’, oh, never mind.  I forgot you predominantly think that television is something that shows you the news and that you can play the Playstation through…  Anyway, you weren’t here to witness their costume party from hell.  How would you like it to look out your front window and see every crap, second rate costume in existence lurching around before your eyes?"  Chris’ voice rises a notch as he lists the horror. "You name it, it was there.  Madonna, a nymph, John Kennedy, Captain fucking Cook, Batman, a hideous green elf, a couple of transvestites - or they could have been really ugly women, nothing would surprise me - and some pathetic people that couldn’t be stuffed hiring costumes and simply wore trench coats with FBI badges on them and who no doubt thought they were Mulder and Scully. Needless to say *she* was bigger than *him* and *he* had red hair."  He sighs.  "See?  There’s no help for it.  They *deserve* this party."

// Couldn’t agree more!  Here’s hoping they’re planning a nice, quiet night in! //

As theme parties go, tonight’s promises to be *spectacular*.  ‘Queer as Folk meets Priscilla - Queen of the Desert’.  Brilliant!  They’re not going to know what hits them.  I roll onto my back and purr with undisguised delight, blissfully happy with how Chris’ malicious streak has presented itself.

‘Okay!  Enough already!"  Sam shakes his head and laughs.  "I agree.  They deserve it.  But aren’t you forgetting the other reason for this extravaganza?"

"Nope.  Not at all.  I’ve got his present somewhere and when I manage to locate it again, I’ll wrap it.  Are you sure you don’t want your name on it as well?"

The Fat Cows aren’t the only ones who aren’t going to know what hits them. I doubt poor Spencer has any idea what he’s getting himself into either. One thing is for sure though, this isn’t going to be a birthday that he forgets in a hurry…

"Er…  No.  Thanks for the offer but I’ve never given anyone a voucher for a tattoo yet and I don’t intend to start now.  I think I’ll stick to the Filo-Fax organiser I’ve already got.…"

"Spoilsport!  I wonder what he’ll get?  A tenner says he gets something computer orientated.  I can imagine it now, a modem on his butt or something incredibly less-than-sexy like that…" Chris snickers happily to himself and starts to half-heartedly pack away the empty boxes that the home-entertainment system came in.

"You *worry* me.  In fact, I don’t know what worries me more, the whole tattoo-voucher-as-gift-thing or the fact that you’ve been thinking about Spencer’s backside."  Sam gets off the sofa and helps Chris with the boxes.

"You’re all heart.  Trust me, I do not think about Spencer like that at all. Actually, I don’t really think about Spencer in any other light than - good agent, sad pathetic private life."

"He seems happy enough to me."

"He’s a *geek*.  I mean, the man lives for his computer.  You should have heard him on the phone the other day, dribbling on about Hewlett Packard this, IBM that, e-mail this, floppy disk that, it was astoundingly boring. To top it all off, he ended the call by making a date to watch a BMX video with whoever the dork on the other end of the line was."

"I take it you’ve never heard of the ‘to each their own’ saying?"

"Yeah, yeah…  Of course I’ve heard that.  Look, basically I feel sorry for Spencer and just want him to break free of his nerdy little existence for a night.  Do I even need to add that his favourite subject at school was science, that he once considered becoming an evolutionary psychologist - whatever the hell that is when it is at home - and, as a child, his family used to holiday alternatively in Alnwick or Kielder - *every* year?  Sheesh, the man needs a break."

Yet again, Sam shakes his head.  "You do of course realise that not everyone can be as perfect as you, don’t you?"

"I’ve resigned myself to that fact, yes."  Chris pauses in his attempts to turn the box the video came in into a matchbox and smirks at Sam.  "You come close though…  Who knows, one of these days you just might be as perfect as me."

"Oooh!  Something to strive for.  I do hope that I don’t let you down."

"I’m pleased to be able to give you a reason for living, actually, while I’m at it, I can give you more than that, I can give you something to do as well."

"And that would be what exactly?"

"Well, seeing as you’re so good at it, I thought you’d like to get the Hoover out of the cupboard and do a spot of vacuuming."

"You *own* a vacuum cleaner?  I think I’d better sit down.  The shock is just beginning to hit me."

// People that are in shock do not, in my esteemed opinion, smirk.  Sorry, Sam, but your acting skills are somewhat lacking. //

"Yeah, I own a vacuum cleaner, I have no idea what to with it, but I own one.  I also own a typewriter and a pie-maker but it doesn’t mean I use them either.  If I dug around long enough I’d probably even find a piggy bank and I certainly don’t have a use for one of them."  Finally happy that the boxes are now completely unrecognisable, Chris gets off the floor and beams.  "Go on!  Hop to it before I have to get the whip out!"

"Yes, Sir!"  Sam gives him a mock salute.  "What are you going to do?"

"Work out the music and start with the decorations.  Does that meet with your approval?"

I don’t wait around for Sam’s answer, having had an unfortunate experience with the vacuum cleaner in the past (Chris lied, he has used it - *once* - but the noise I made when my tail got accidentally stuck in it has put the both of us off ever using it again…).  I hop off the sofa and bolt for my cat door, not stopping until I’m outside.