The Kitchen Sink

My waking bladder's telling me to commit seppuku and aim low. Bonita (Bone-eater) senses it; her breath is sweeter than mine.

Running water, the teenager lock-in; I mull a "Here's Johnny!" moment, but bow my forehead to the warm wood; my yukata has been dumped outside the door.

More whining. I clip on a lead and step outside. Higginbotham from number seven disapproves, but Bonnie's relieved.

Stabbing pains suggest my bladder is taking the matter into its own hands.

I sit, shrug the gown from my shoulders, wrap the breadknife handle with a dishcloth.

Perhaps I should do the washing-up.

Watering the Cat

Sir Reginald Thorne, OBE, woke at 3:17 a.m., bladder swollen with imperial ambition. Crossing the carpet felt like marching on Moscow in winter. His dignity trailed behind, out of step and mutinous.

The cat, Biggles, Bast of the Drafts, guardian sphinx of the dawn battleground. Negotiations failed: one toe-poke, one hiss.

The seat was cocked; Pistol primed for flashing fire.

Reginald sighed, as kings will on ramparts. "History will not remember this as cowardice," he declared, taking aim. He watered the cat as the empire fell.

But then, cannons never were an effective weapon.

Biggles was mentioned in despatches.

Tenamen

02:15. 03:12. The glowing clock tells of a radical prostatectomy. Bitter urges, stubbed toes and penitent dribbles.

No mewling infant to moonlight coddle but postpartum regret nonetheless. Camp bed, lounge windows and a defiant plastic undersheet. The faint ammoniacal resonance, a small boy's foul remembrance.

Six months, he said. Then we'll see.

Nappies proffered, an under-counter transaction. Smiles behind teenage hands. Manly packaging over emasculated evidence.

Love cannot be flaccid. We'll see, he said.

Only my wife, alone in her bed, is certain.

I tear, peel and tuck. Gel and Velcro, Velcro and gel.

I hang my head.