Sick Stairs Bro

I don’t think you should ever under-estimate the adhesive powers of cat sick.

On Sunday I came home from work and was bumbling about doing bits and bobs before Carole arrived home from an eventful day out with my mother (who, it seems, has turned into a cantankerous old so-and-so recently). I went upstairs to get changed from my work clothes into general slobbing about clothes.

For me, this also means removing shoes and socks. I like to pad about bare footed. I always have and I probably always will.

Apart from when you stand in cat sick three stairs down from the top.

For starters, how I missed it on the way up I do not know.

But for seconders.. it’s horrible to stand in. I wouldn’t recommend it. At all. In the slightest. It was cold, for starters. Cold and squidgy. Like a cold, squidgy thing. And it adhered to the bottom of my foot.

I was three steps from the top of the stairs, on my way down. My hands were full, as I was transporting a basket of washing. There’s not a lot you can do in that situation. Most of them play out like the opening few minutes of Casualty, seeing me tumble down the stairs.

Covered in cat sick, to add insult to what would most definitely be injury.

I tried shaking the sick of my foot.

It wouldn’t budge. I mean, in a way I’m glad it didn’t. Because it would have gone somewhere, and I’d have had to track it and search extensively to make sure I had found it all. And no-one wants to explain how there is cat sick on the walls.

In the end, still with basket in hand which meant that I couldn’t really see where on my foot the offending gunk was (and, initially, couldn’t see what I’d stood in at all which lead to numerous scenarios running through my head), I had to kind of scrape my foot along the stair. In a style which would be familiar to anyone who has stood on dog shit and had to make their way to the nearest patch of grass to drag their foot across it.

It was disgusting.

Even just thinking about it makes me shudder a little.

Because Peppa is on dry food, her sick is sort of the consistency of Weetabix in just enough milk. Like you could plaster a wall with it.

And it was so cold. So cold. And disgusting.

But, still, at least it wasn’t crap. Which is what I initially thought it was. Along with a dead creature that my step had, well, ruptured and countless other ideas.

Having a cat is lovely. She’s absolutely adorable and lovely.

99% percent of the time.