Not My Kind Of Protest

AAAAARRRGHHHHHH!!?!??!? Noooooooooooooooooo!?!?

I stood in the doorway of what had once been my pleasant home and stared aghast at the nightmare before me.

The bag that had been in my hand fell through numb fingers to land with a clump at my feet. A big fat salty tear rolled sadly down my left cheek and plopped forlornly down on the carpet to join it.

Fucking fuck McFuckity BASTARD!?

Shaking my head and scowling like an old man who hasn't shit for a week, I clenched my fists and advanced into the horror within.

---

It had been a long day.

My Mother's funeral was tomorrow and as is the nature of these things there seemed to be lots of last-minute arrangements to be made.

As my brother and I zoomed from appointment to appointment the day raced by.

Finally, the only task left was the one that we had both been dreading the most.

Fortunately, the many many tales he told me as we drove about of his ever troubling arse-grapes had numbed me to the last visit we had to make.

That last visit being the viewing of our dear old Mother in the funeral parlour before the Funeral.

It was a sad affair and the pair of us attempted not to cry in various manful ways. Grunts. Snorts. Waving at imaginary wasps and much going to of the toilet seemed to be the order of the day for such manly men as ourselves.

After it we sat in the car, both of us lost in our own ever swirling thoughts.

You alright?

He asked gruffly as if the answer had better be aye, I'm fine.

Aye. I'm fine.

I replied as if I was actually fine.

I dropped him off at his house and we exchanged manly hugs and fist bumps whilst avoiding each others eye.

I drove the car a short distance and then pulled over for a good old fashioned cry.

My phone pinged. It was the Good Lady asking if I wanted her to take the kids out to give me a bit of space when I returned.

That would be magic.

I gratefully replied.

I put some beers in the freezer for you. Take a bit of time for yourself and sit in the garden with a beer or two.

I wiped my tears away. What a woman. I could think nothing better than going home and staring into space with a nice cold beer.

And so I had arrived home...

---

What the fuck have you little bastards done?!

My cats had had a party.

A dirty party.

For cat-reasons best known to themselves, they had shat all over the place. There were smears of shit absolutely everywhere.

The hall?

About 12 shits.

The lounge?

I gave up counting after 18 or so shits.

Everywhere I looked there were various piles and smears of shit that had been deposited like the brush strokes of a mad painter.

Some hour or so later the Good Lady arrived home into a freshly cleaned house and walked through into the garden where I sat, clutching a beer.

Hey, you. Have you managed to relax and chill a bit?

She asked softly.

I looked at her and raised my can of beer in salute.

Nah, lass. It's been a bit shit. Literally.