I am not a person who likes surpises - not for me the cheery sporting laugh when someone amusingly dangles a huge bouncing black rubber spider in front of my face - no, I am the one having hysterics on the corner, freezing the merry smiles off the merry jesting faces.

Nor am I keen on domestic mysteries. For instance, the other morning I groggily made my way downstairs to find a large lump shaped object covered in a black plastic sack on the doorstep to the back garden. Fighting back the natural urge to scream and go back to bed, I peered at it and could see the outline in the plastic of what appeared to be a rim or something, meaning that the object was probably not an amorphous blob taking a breather on our back doorstep from its sinister intent to take over the world.

So, I summoned my courage and got a stick and lifted the edge……..to see what appeared to be the lampshade from the light on our landing. Hmmmm. More pause for thought - not a sinister invasion from another life form, but a burglar with a sense of humour? Or one with the cheek to judge our taste by rejecting a lampshade? And to be sure, the light bulb had disappeared as well - and it was one of these ones that supposed to last 6 years. A frugal thief?

The mystery was solved when my husband came home. He had come out of the bathroom, and noticed that the lampshade was dusty and had takn in down, light bulb as well.. Being completely foxed then as how to remove the offending dust - he had put it outside to await a second opinion and practical solution (i.e. left it to someone else ). I leave readers to make guesses my response to this. And what was my first suggestion that he use the feather duster for.

Other surprises, or minor mysteries, that I don't care for are the cats sitting in formation (see Hickory Dickory Oops below) or coming down in the morning to find scattered tufts of hair and broken claws on the carpet. Plus no sign of either cat, and the cat flap barricade system down. The choices are - either go and an call/search for the cats, or wait until they come, or drag themselves, home.. No good calling for my Old Boy, because he's so stone deaf he'd never hear, even if he's collapsed somewhere. She would hear, but prefers to retreat and sleep it all off - and let me worry. So, in the end I'm left with an over-active imagination and chewed fingernails until one or both of them strolls back nonchalantly and hopefully intact. Who needs practical jokers when one has cats. Of course, then there is always the thought that, as both of them are fine - what does the other fellow look like? Well, if he's willing to take on a heavyweight lady and a deaf, but up for it, old gent in their own home - serve him right. Boo to him, and boo-hoo too. But never BOO! to me. Ever.

Thelma Mitchell © May 2005

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