Twas a cold, dark, rainy evening in early November...
the kind of dull, grey day that chills you to your core at the mere thought of it and makes you pine for the distant spring.
It would have been about 5ish because the family was gathered in the kitchen, ravenous, shivering slightly despite the central heating, keenly anticipating the soul-comfortingly warm delights of the stew that was on offer.
Strange, though, that the cat had not been pestering the maker of this winter feast for any scrap of meat going, as was her wont.
A mewling at the door - ah, she had been out, no doubt chasing leaves blowing in the wind, or batting some dangling piece of string, or biting a bird to death.
Smudge was damp, sodden even, this much was clear, her muddy footprints leaving a watery residue on the linoleum.
It was bleeding obvious. So why the cunting fuck did my mum have to lift Smudge up and pronounce to the world, without any trace of irony, "THIS is a wet pussy!"?
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 21:04, Reply)