Sometimes things you think were going to be perfectly dreadful, turn out to be ... well, not quite such a cock-up. To be more specific, the specter of a triple-cat flea-spray-bomb event was just that - a specter.
By which I mean, none of the cats rended (or is that rent?) our flesh, or sank their tiny but oh, so very sharp, fangs into any portion of our bodies, or did more than look at us with malice-filled, yet somehow innocent eyes that ... well, they either spoke of betrayal most chemically foul, or promised us harm in the dark hours of our sleeping night. Can't decide which.
And after we washed the bathroom floor, threw our flea-spray soaked clothing into the wash and showered ourselves off, why, we looked at each other in shared wonder. And we said that it really didn't suck.
And then I finished my day by watching - courtesy of my first born - the last of the first series of Spaced. With French subtitles.