My new perfume? Yes, it's eau de cat pee...

I have just been out with Glamorous Friend and her chubby little godson for a coffee and a toasted fruit teacake at the local garden centre. We had a lovely time catching up and playing with baby H and all was rosy. As usual, Glamorous Friend was looking good - eye make-up and accessories matching subtly with her pretty summer top. She looked good. I looked alright, it was just a bit upsetting that I had pink arms from wrist to mid-forearm where I'd accidentally caught the sun on my gothically pale skin yesterday. I'd been painting the shed and got carried away, forgetting that I should be wearing Factor 4000 and hiding under a parasol...


I got home from the garden centre and sat down to check the post and noticed a strange aroma rising from my shirt. Surely not...

The Cat had been hiding in the wardrobe a couple of nights ago and M didn't realise and closed the door. We were watching the World Cup downstairs when I heard a strange thumping noise coming from upstairs. Thinking it was O, I galloped up the stairs. I realised it was The Cat trapped in the wardrobe from the accompanying wails coming from the bedroom. I flung open the door and was greeted by The Cat hanging from my clothes by her claws and with a wee-soaked tail. The poor love had panicked and lost control - all over my hanging clothes. I removed the offended garments and bunged them in the washing machine, pausing only to wipe the mortified cat free of her shame. I thought I'd got it all...

But no. There it was rising in a fetid cloud from my flowery shirt. I stripped it off, my vest too smelt of wee - surely not my bra! Sadly, the bra appeared to be the source of the wee - I had basically been out of the house with my underwear drenched in rank feline urine. Surely this is the epitome of social shame...