Awaiting The Third.

I'm sure a lot of you will remember when I limericked last week about my kitty. Poor, sweet little Angel who had been subjected to a visit to the vet to be spayed. She's still recovering well, although with another six days before the stitches can come out (thus another six days of wearing the torture tool that is The Cone Collar), she is still somewhat disorientated.

Altogether now; one, two, three... Ahhhhhh!

You may also remember when I limericked the week prior to that about my infamous Tara-Trips (I'm pretty sure you may know where this is going. *snort*) You know, those silly things that I find myself tripping over from time to time. Like fresh air, for example.

Anywho, on Monday, dear, sweet little Angel, who has been going slightly doolally in the last week owing to her head-wear, decided that a scamper through the kitchen might be a nice idea. Perhaps a frolic by food dish, or maybe a playful swatting of a dishcloth seemed to be the order of the day. All well and good, but when she timed her scurry-by to fit neatly with the time I was poised to empty the mop bucket, then things didn't quite go to plan. Several curses and desperate grasping motions did little to stop the bucket from slipping from my hands and upending all over the floor. *mutters darkly* I managed to rescue my flooded kitchen, but I'm pretty sure my tiles - which are only meant to be cleaned using a damp mop (and not a bucket full of hot soapy water) - will never be the same again.

Honestly, I love my baby to bits, but I'm pretty sure I glared at her. And cursed. A lot.

Despite the dirty look and foul language, Little Miss I Shouldn't Be Called Angel did not learn her lesson. Last night she decided once again that a sprint through the kitchen was the absolute only thing in the world that she wanted to do.

Yup, Trip #2 coming up.

I'm pleased to report that I was nowhere near the mop bucket (though if I had been it would have been fine seeing as it was empty). Unfortunately, I'm not so pleased to report that I was in the middle of ironing. In my surprise of almost being knocked from my feet by a Very Fast Pussy, I inadvertently ended up ironing the inside of my arm rather than my son's school shirt. I'm not sure how clear the picture is (my phone has a poor camera), but you should be able to make out the lovely burn that I have. Isn't it fetching?

With another six days before the collar comes off, hence another six days of extra frantic scampering, I am dreading what the third trip will be, because me being me, there is bound to be another one.

*candles self*

Hmm, perhaps not the best choice of words...

Edit: Ha! I just noticed that Angel managed to get into the picture of my arm. How apt!