The Cat Did It!

Following an action-packed day, we returned gratefully to Station House and settled in front of the telly for Friday night entertainment and dessert after a fairly haphazard dietary intake of nibbles and vino.

"The Heights", a relatively believable soap that was filmed in Western Australia, was first on the agenda. We enjoyed the show, which features six families living in a multi-cultural suburb in a major city. Then we lowered the bar. We switched over to "San Andreas", a disaster movie that was both laughable and strangely riveting.

No longer am I a night owl. I was up way past my bedtime. Heading for bed and bidding "nigh nigh" to Michael, I was instantly and blissfully asleep.

I should have known better than leaving Michael on his own. He can't be trusted to restrain himself in the thrall of delicious red wine. I was unaware that he had come to bed until he spectacularly woke me to fill me in on one of his legendary nocturnal conversations.

I must admit that I was not empathetic. At all. Michael's night time chats have not always met with my harmonious acquiescence. I have endured when the cat stole Michael's toast and disappeared on stilettos with the offending food in her suitcase. The delegation from the salad led by Mister Carrot was another corker. Then there was the episode when Michael became the television controller. Believe me, I have ceased to be surprised by any of Michael's unconscious ravings. And last night, I wasn't even remotely interested in anything he had to say in the wee hours of this morning.

So, I told him so. Actually, I loudly beseeched him to shut up before I found a large garden gnome to ram up his arse. He was utterly bewildered. Thankfully, he turned on his side, farted in my general direction and returned to slumber.

Until he woke again, for a trip to the loo. Approaching his side of the bed upon completion of his ablutions, he announced he had stood in a puddle. He was convinced that the offending pool was dog piddle. So. I launched out of bed to check on the nature of his annoyance. The pee wasn't. Certainly, there was a distinctive area of liquid. I then noted his glass on its side on his bedside table with only a smattering of water left in it. The mystery was solved and I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes. Michael had spilt his bloody water.

He was having none of that. "It wasn't me", he wailed. "The cat did it!"

I rest my case.

Some of Michael's various conversationalists -

 

And how I respond...