My entire family hates me.
Being ultra efficient on Friday evening I checked my motorbike for punctures, as I always do before going to bed.
This isn’t a peculiar form of OCD on my part, but as I have to be up so early it’s hardly worthwhile going to bed, I have to make sure I can get to work since I leave over an hour before even the Underground begins. And having sold my second motorbike a year ago I must be able to get there or risk losing the contract. Taking my wife’s car would result in severe blunt force trauma to the head and body. Experience talking here.
Thus, bike checked, garage closed I retired to bed happy that I’d be able to go to work, if a little unhappy that I’d have to make do with about two hours kip. Now to the hating part.
Half way through the night I received a text telling me that I wouldn’t be required. Great in that I wouldn’t have to get up, but bad that I’d miss a day’s pay as I’m self employed. None of day off at full pay nonsense for me.
“Where’s the cat?”
My daughter is always strident, and never more so than when she thinks I’ve mistreated her feline thugs, both of whom would have died years ago if left to her for feeding. I shook my head, resisting the urge to threaten her with death if she didn’t let me go back to sleep that instant.
“Found the cat,” she announced happily several hours later when I finally emerged from blissful sleep, “and it’s left a little present on your motorbike as it had to sleep in the garage all night.”
It must have crept in after me searching for something to eviscerate as I checked the tyres. Inside the garage are at least four motorbike covers, six coats and an old rug yet my daughter’s feline accolyte had to do it right on top of my bike. Just wait until it comes to me for food the next time my daughter is far too busy being cool and trying on yet more new shoes!!