Christmas morning all dressed up for posh Christmas dinner at my Mums, I waited in the kitchen for Ant to come back from doing the cows. Something smelt horrid but I was just glad to be in the warm so tried to ignore it.
Ant arrived home, he went upstairs and I could hear him complaining "URGH, WHAT IS THAT SMELL".
Turns out Monserat, after 13 years, had at last found the litter tray, he had done something that looked like an entire packet of chocolate custard and not even followed traditional cat manners by covering it over. Disgusting, stomach churning, very, very disgusting.
I picked up the litter tray, my Christmas hat had slipped over my eyes, so I didn't notice a white Duvet fall off the Bannister and go plop silently onto the stairs. About 4 stairs down my feet met the Duvet and shot out from under me and I went dud, dud, dud, dud, dud, dud all the way down, picking up an impressive mph that Jeremy Clarkson would have been proud of. As I met the inevitable final stair my progress ceased abruptly, cat litter and pooh flew up in the air, then back down and everywhere.
I lay there wondering how I had ended up in the hall, bruised yet lying on a soft white Duvet.
It couldn't be heaven, I was surrounded by cat litter and sloppy cat pooh. Ant confirmed my suspicions that I was still alive by peering down at me from the top of the stairs asking "are you alright?"
We were a little late for Christmas lunch with a few bruises and a good story to tell.
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