I wake. A memory, lingering at the edge of consciousness, of sitting in the café, all of us loudly competing against the hubbub, sipping a deliciously large cappuccino. I can smell, maybe even taste the coffee, as I make my way into the kitchen.
Next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor: groggy, but conscious. I recall reaching over to flick the kettle on. I tripped over the bloody cat. My fractured memory recalls the screech of the cat, I resurfaced to the scream of the kettle. Damned cat! Why are we babysitting her?
I conduct a basic triage. There is blood on the cupboard and on the front of my pjs’. My fingers find a long cut on my forehead. My hip issues a significant bleat, my ribs also complain when I try to sit up. I remain, spread ingloriously across the kitchen floor. I think I may have pissed myself, too! The cat has disappeared: good job, ‘cos I have a mind to chop its bloody head off. Was that the doorbell?
Surprisingly, the kettle, and its electrical base are on the floor beside me. It has landed upright, still on its cradle. What are the odds of that, I wonder? Is that why I heard it screaming so loudly?
My hand confirms it has boiled recently. I idly flick the switch. Jees, it’s still connected. I’m lucky not to sustain third-degree burns, possible electrocution. The kettle starts to shriek again and I stretch over. It beats me, and turns itself off!
I am stuck here – well, that’s a bit dramatic. I just lie doggo for a while, gathering my senses.
My brain continues to wander. I note the greasy, baby-poo-coloured walls. We really should get a painter in. What would she charge, just to do the kitchen? Nah, you couldn’t do that – OK, maybe the lounge, as well. Alright, keep ya PJs on, we could do the whole bloody house!
I wouldn’t mind getting my book from the bedroom, only a few chapters to go. Those silly blue ducks, they forever chase the fly-specs on the retro tiles. I’m quite hungry, and I still haven’t had my morning coffee.
The cat slinks in, inspects my prostrate form, meows plaintively, suggesting that her milk is way behind schedule. My thoughts remain, just thoughts. Bloody animal!
The doorbell rings again. I yell, a shadow passes the kitchen window.