What’s your gag reflex like? Have you the kind of cast-iron stomach that can stand all manner of taunts, from the smell of durian to the sight of fresh roadkill?
Or are you, like me, already feeling nauseous just from thinking about the word ‘gag’? I can’t hold a hair clip in my mouth without feeling shaky, and even a picture of a cockroach (I don’t know – they’re one of my triggers) makes my eyes water.
There are a few things in daily life that get me going – stepping on a snail, mashing a banana (every time) – but perhaps none more so than cleaning out the kitty litter.
With that in mind, I want you to come with me into one of the darkest moments of my life thus far. (That’s if you haven’t starting sick-sweating and turned the page.)
I’ve mentioned before my kitten Neo – built like a tank, hungry as a horse. Not long ago we went on holiday, leaving a lovely, sensible housesitter with the animals, though she was out working during the day.
Neo decided to express his existential loneliness and despair by using the entrance of our walk-in wardrobe as a toilet.
The housesitter wasn’t using the main bedroom so didn’t notice, though, of course, we did as soon as we returned. Much moaning, much vinegar and bi-carb on the carpet.
But... THAT IS NOT THE END OF THE STORY. Cut to a week or so later. The smell that should have been fading was, in fact, intensifying, possibly even morphing into something more repulsive.
So, on hands and knees, I pulled everything out of the bottom of the wardrobe, only to discover, deep in the far corner where my husband keeps his rarely-worn shoes, that the poo at the entrance was merely the hors d’oeuvre. The mains were up the back.
Cue ghastly retching, which didn’t ease for the hours it took me to clean up.
I’m going to stop there before I dry heave. Heaven knows how you’re feeling, dear reader, but you can’t say you weren’t warned.
And even though I wanted to burn it with fire, I’ve settled for keeping our wardrobe doors firmly shut.
