The Bitch Stitch

“I need to go to London tomorrow,” Mat says casually. It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s entirely usual. Mat goes to London every week. Has done for years. It’s part of the rhythm of life now, alongside bin day, middle aisle regret buys, and finding cat hair in places no cat has ever set paw in. Yet somehow this perfectly ordinary piece of information detonates inside my brain like a delayed-action grenade. “HOW COULD YOU?” I yell. Mat blinks. “Leaving me again.” “I do have to work, Mandy.” Technically, he’s correct. His job is in London. Has been for five years. This changes absolutely nothing. “You’re always trying to escape me at every given opportunity,” I snap, stomping around the house with unearned outrage. I slam cupboards. I aggressively fluff cushions. I make absolutely certain he’s fully aware I’m annoyed. Meanwhile, Pickle appears to be suffering the worst digestive crisis in recorded feline history. The kitten is squatting every few seconds. A plant pot. A chair. A cushion. A shoe. Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. One particularly aggressive turd lands directly in the centre of my beloved Aztec rug, where it sits like some steaming shrine to the shit Gods. I stare at it. Pickle stares at me. Neither of us blink. The turd somehow feels smug. “Have you been feeding him cottage cheese again?” I demand. Mat smiles gingerly. Of course he has. Every morning the pair of them sit together sharing scrambled egg on toast with a generous dollop of cottage cheese, like two pensioners enjoying a seaside holiday in Devon. Mat gets a plate. Pickle is given a tiny china dish. The cat has somehow become accustomed to a lifestyle that is now noticeably more luxurious than my own. Unfortunately, his digestive system appears to be rejecting the arrangement. Pickle deposits another dukey into a houseplant. Then another. Then appears to briefly consider a third. Plop. He’s less a kitten and more a furry, cottage-cheese-filled Gatling gun firing at alarming speed with no apparent target, strategy, or remorse. “Let’s go swimming,” Mat suggests. The suggestion hangs in the air like a peace treaty. “Hmm.” I consider it. “Okay.” A pause. “But I haven’t forgiven you.” “Noted.” Neither of us acknowledge the fact that Pickle has just climbed onto the windowsill and appears to be loading another round. We grab our swimming bags and leave Pickle to continue his gastrointestinal farewell tour of the property. The journey to the swimming pool is uneventful for approximately forty-five glorious seconds. Then we reach the bus stop. The usual suspects are gathered there. Now, I don’t like using the phrase skag-heads. It’s judgmental. It’s unkind. It’s also, unfortunately, the only accurate description currently available. They’re sitting on a wall outside the swimming baths, swigging cans of White Lightning, chain-smoking, and generally behaving like the oxygen-wasting parasites they are. They shout. They beg. They heckle passers-by. They behave as though they have wandered straight off the Jeremy Kyle stage and somehow ended up in wider society. Usually we sneak past unnoticed, using the highly sophisticated tactic of pretending not to make eye contact with anyone. Today, however, things take an unholy turn. Because lying across the bus shelter bench are two completely naked people having what can only be described as an alarmingly risky sexual encounter in broad daylight. No blankets. No shame. No concern whatsoever for the passing public. Unfortunately, one of them notices us. A man who looks as though he hasn’t washed for at least three decades stands up. Something else stands up with him. I avert my eyes. “What a pair of beauties,” he says, licking his chapped lips. “Foursome?” I freeze. Not because I’m considering it. Because I’m genuinely astonished by the confidence. “No.” I shake my head. “Not in a million lifetimes, mate.” He looks genuinely wounded. I don’t know what answer he was expecting. “Hell yeah, stranger. Let me just whip my swimming cossie off.” The audacity is breathtaking. Even Mat looks impressed, and he’s witnessed turds literally firing out of his cat’s arse like a tennis ball launcher set to full speed. We move swiftly on, leaving the grubby lovers to whatever chain of decisions brought them to a bus shelter at three o’clock in the afternoon. Eventually we reach the swimming pool. The changing rooms are absolute carnage. Thursday evenings are normally quiet. We can usually secure a family cubicle without much fuss. Not tonight. Tonight appears to be the annual gathering of every swimmer in Britain. Children are running in circles. Someone is eating a banana in a shower. A lifeguard is muttering to a vending machine. Eventually I find an empty cubicle. Well. “Cubicle” is perhaps an ambitious description. It’s three walls and disappointment. Four walls if you count the crushing sense of vulnerability. There isn’t actually a door. I step inside anyway because modesty has limits and mine have apparently been reached. Unfortunately, the moment I enter, a woman with a face like an incoming storm comes marching towards me. “You stole my cubicle.” “I got here first,” I argue. She folds her arms. I begin changing. She continues staring. The staring becomes increasingly intense. Competitive, almost. Every awkward hop. Every nip slip. Every accidental loss of dignity. She witnesses it all. The woman never blinks. I’m no longer convinced she’s human. “Can you piss off please?” I ask. “I’m getting changed.” A reasonable request, I feel. Without speaking she points to a sign. I squint. 19 YEARS OLD AND UNDER ONLY. I look at her. She looks at me. Then she delivers the killing blow. “You’re old as fuck.” Bitch. Straight for the jugular. I might be approaching forty but there is absolutely no need for that level of violence. “Is she giving you beef?” A familiar voice bellows across the changing rooms. I turn around. It’s Ice Spice. Of course it is. Because swimming pool changing rooms are apparently where celebrities spawn in my dreams. Every single time. Last month it was Matthew McConaughey sobbing beside a dolphin-shaped bin. The month before that I vaguely remember having an argument with Gordon Ramsay whilst wearing inflatable armbands. Now it’s Ice Spice. At this point I would be more surprised if a celebrity didn’t appear. She’s wearing a fluorescent wig and bright pink sliders that squeak aggressively with every step. “It’s okay,” she says. “We shall get vengeance.” Her entire demeanour changes. The atmosphere darkens. Thunder rumbles somewhere despite us being indoors. Then she says quietly: “Lemmie just grab my Bitch Stitch.” From absolutely nowhere she produces another wig. A gigantic red afro. She removes the old wig and tosses it over her shoulder. It lands perfectly on the bald head of an elderly man who doesn’t even seem to notice. Remarkably, it suits him. He looks like Bob Ross. Disco Edition. I follow Ice Spice. Unfortunately Thunder Face follows too. Classic that. Didn’t need a cubicle after all. Ice Spice stands at the side of the pool and blows a whistle. The sound slices through the entire leisure centre. Every swimmer stops. Every lifeguard winces. Even the woman blow-drying her towel lowers it briefly. And from the centre of the pool another familiar figure emerges. Slowly. Dramatically. Like some sort of hip-hop sea monster. It’s Cardi B. Of course it is. Because apparently today we’re doing celebrity cameos. What happens next is appalling. Truly appalling. Thunder Face barely has time to react before both rappers seize her. Splash. Under she goes. Back up. Splash. Back down again. Bubbles erupt frantically beneath the surface. “STOP!” I yell. “You’re going to drown the poor woman.” Honestly, somebody has to be an adult here. Both rappers pause. Turn. Look at me. “Yeah,” says Cardi. “And?” “It’s inhumane!” I can’t believe I am having to explain this. They exchange a glance. Then reluctantly release her. Thunder Face explodes from the water, coughing and crying, before running from the leisure centre. Ice Spice sighs. “Girl.” She shakes her head. “I can’t help what happens when the Bitch Stitch is on.” The swim itself is traumatic. Not because anything particularly bad happens. Simply because I spend the entire time wondering whether I’ve just witnessed attempted murder by celebrity. By the time I get home I’m exhausted. Outside, Pickle is still going. The garden now resembles the aftermath of a dairy-related catastrophe. The cat appears to have achieved some form of perpetual motion through bowel activity alone. “Mat,” I say. “This is not normal.” He watches Pickle launch another attack on a flower bed. “We’ll survive it.” It’s his answer to everything. The economy. The collapse of civilisation. A cat weaponising dairy products. We’ll survive it. Then I hear movement. A rustle. A snapped twig. Several muffled swear words. I turn towards the hydrangeas. A face appears between the leaves. Thunder Face. The enormous red afro sits atop her head like a deranged crimson halo. It looks ridiculous. She somehow manages to look even angrier wearing it. Then the ground begins to rumble. At first I think it’s thunder. Then I think it’s an earthquake. Then I realise it’s coming from the compost heap. “Oh no,” I whisper. The flowerbeds erupt. The hydrangeas shake violently. Something launches out of a plant pot. Then another. Then twenty more. Turds. Tiny turds. Dozens of them. An entire army of furious little turds wearing miniature red afro wigs. They charge across the garden, their tiny wigs bouncing with every determined step. Thunder Face raises an arm dramatically. “My children!” she cries. The army stops. Every tiny turd turns towards her. “I have been wronged.” A collective murmur ripples through the ranks. Quite how a turd murmurs is unclear. “And now…” She points directly at me. “…VENGEANCE.” The entire army surges forward. Hundreds of tiny wig-wearing turds stampeding across the lawn. Behind them, Pickle emerges from the darkness and takes his place at the front like a battle-hardened general. “MAT!” I scream. But he’s already drifting towards London. “I do have to work, Mandy!” he shouts, growing smaller by the second. The last thing I see before waking is an advancing wall of tiny afro-wearing turds, led by Pickle and commanded by Thunder Face, bearing down upon me with grim determination. Then I wake up. And that, dear readers, is precisely why cottage cheese has no business being consumed after 9pm.