As you may have noticed I’ve been away for a while. No, wait a moment, let me explain, NOT away as at Her Majestys Pleasure, but away from the keyboard of my magic Ewriter. So, this ‘little’ actual happening has been on my note pad since August.
Today I feel that I must share it with you. So…
Early morning spasms awaken me, creatures of infinitesimal size run around inside my arms and legs as if they are on a marathon, chomping and treading about like hungry crazed parade ground soldiers.
The TDL (to do list) is quite extensive today, the car is booked in for a full professional valet, a requirement as it just happens to be one of my OCD things, especially after transporting a member of the feline colony over every hill, along four motorways, down every dale and across seven county borders toward the Essex coast recently.
So, here is the reason why.
This road trip was the first chance I would have been able to do a few good miles non-stop. ‘Mamma bear’ as she is referred to, not by me I must add, is sat shotgun. Charlie poo on the back seat in the borrowed transporter cage nestled securely amongst suitcase, carrier bags, bath seat and a saucepan complete with lid plus ad finitum of miscellanous rubbish accumulated over a twenty day period.
I’m sure that many of my readers are well aware feeding any animal before travelling is NOT a good thing. I had asked if *it* (I’m calling it an it, because I don’t like OR relate to cats) had done it’s business and possibly wee’d, hopefully she would refrain from feeding it last night, but as she felt sorry for it, she did.
Just as Brabinger was passing Junction 27 on the M5, suddenly, and without warning, we were encased in toxic fume. There is only one smell worse than cat poo in a litter tray, and that’s fresh cat shit in a car. It was everywhere, just like a Maze prison protest, fortunately all behind cat cell walls. The drive to the next turn off from the motorway seemed like an eternity, we heaved, well, you can guess what it was like. Pulling off to the junction lay-by we skidded to a halt, I manhandled the stinking flimsy cage out of the rear space, stuck my hand into the pit of hell and pulled out all soft bedding, sodden with detritus I bunged it into a carrier bag, the dress, I must add was NOT mine, had originally been folded nicely, it was now in a heap on the rear parcel shelf.
This life form had to go, and that meant right now. At that point the vile creature bolted between my arm and the edge of the carrier flap, luckily it was caught by its foreleg and passively chastised. Me? Absolutely seething!
The journey was then resumed, but, what we didn’t know, was that it wasn’t going to get much better. As if raising the volume on the radio was going to make matters better, perhaps numbing my hearing might compensate my sense of smell, as said before, just like my ears, I don’t wear my nose for beauty, didnt.
The only problem now was that my passenger had lapsed into dance mode in the front seat, believe me I have feelings for people who suffer from ADHD, extreme OCD or any self phobia but not knowing their background or personal circumstances and how they would react meant that driving along at ten percent (ish) above the national speed limit was a little spooky. ‘Right’… I think to myself, time for change of tack. My left hand turns the digital receiver to the off position and switch to Sally SatNav. Considering I have never ever used it whilst driving on a motorway before, and the concrete slab road reverberating through the run flat tyres, burnt deep frequencies from ear to ear in a straight line, totally annihilating the voice of the seductive instructress.
Coming up to the apex of the Gordano Avon flyover I open all four windows, it’s the only chance to get rid of the impossible smell of cat crap. Perhaps, with a bit of luck or a God-given mysterious way, the cat and its belongings, all of them, might just get sucked out in a green haze vortex and eventually land in the back garden way below the preformed galvanised stanchions of the highway towering way over the suburb of Portishead.
“Holy Cat Crap” shouts Batman as he fist pumps the air and disappears into a wormhole!