Sometimes I get the feeling that certain older relatives don't
want us to have sexy time while we're staying in their house. They
have a seemingly in-exhaustive arsenal of tricks up their sleeve to
make sure there's no sex happening in their house -- ever.
We are currently staying with one such relative who normally
insists on force-feeding us pre-bedtime. She likes to give us
something that will weigh so heavy on our sex drive that it
actually nudges it into neutral, so that all we're capable of doing
is rolling towards the bed and parking up for the night.
This visit is no exception. She's outdone herself with an idea
that's so fiendishly clever I'm not even annoyed, I'm actually
impressed. She has three cats, and she's strategically placed their
litter boxes in our en-suite. This stroke of passive aggressive
genius means that we will have to keep the door to our bedroom
open, to allow them access, for the duration of the trip. If that's
not enough to curb our enthusiasm we'll also face multiple
interruptions as the cat caravan makes its nightly trek across the
landing, through our bedroom, and into to our bathroom, one after
another, until they've all excavated their bowels. Cats are
creatures of the night, so any nocturnal naughtiness will almost
certainly be accompanied by their nightly ablutions.
Night one and sure enough, just as we retire to bed the cats
cometh. There might be a sound in this universe that is less
erotically charged than that of a cat scraping its poo-laden paw on
a tile that's two inches from your head, but if there is I can't
name it. In fact, the the cat in question may as well be burying my
libido under a pile of cat litter. It's impossible to feel sexy in
such circumstances, even Michael Douglas would struggle to be
turned on with a cat log-relay passing by his head on an hourly
basis.
But on the morning of the third day things appear to be looking
up. I'm convinced that I have outwitted our host by becoming
desensitised to the sound of the cat capers. I turn to my
girlfriend and say, "I didn't hear anything! I don't even hear the
cats any more do you?" This is good news indeed. Then we look over
to the bedroom door to find it closed. It had been closed all
night. Moments later there's the anguished sound of a person who
may, or may not, have stepped in a pile of poo, that may, or not,
have been deposited outside our bedroom door.
"Oh. Shit", says my girlfriend. I couldn't have put it better
myself.
Follow Sarah on Twitter: @rubbishles
