On Saturday, Cat Daddy and I went to a fancy dress party. We dressed as goths, mainly because we, erm, already had most of the clothes.
As part of our costumes we painted our nails black, something to which Cat Daddy only agreed on the basis that I had the wherewithal to remove the nail varnish. And, naturellement, as his nails were drying, Louis Catorze chose that very moment to pounce on his papa, screaming and headbutting for attention.
Cat Daddy: “Oh God, Louis! Why now?”
Me: “He wants stroking. Stroke him!”
Him: “I can’t. My nails are wet.”
Me: “Use your elbows.”
Catorze eventually calmed down and settled on his favourite lap, and Cat Daddy was left with his hands flapping aloft. Not that that would have guaranteed safety because cat hairs are evil, insidious things, sneaking into the least likely places even when the cat isn’t in the vicinity; when my sister came to stay, she painted her nails that evening and managed to paint a single Catorzian hair onto her thumbnail. By the time she noticed, it was too late because it had dried on.
I would love to say that the nail varnish woes ended there. But after the party I discovered, much to Cat Daddy’s chagrin, that I’d made a mistake and, in fact, I did not have the wherewithal to remove it. Cat Daddy and I walked to the shops together to buy said paraphernalia, him with his fists tightly clenched so that nobody would see his nails, only to have his embarrassment further compounded during a pit-stop at the cheese deli: his contactless card wouldn’t work. So he had to handle the card device and punch in his PIN, with his jet-black manicure in full view of the cheese shop staff and other customers.
Catorze is moderately disappointed that his papa chose not to stay fully goth. And, no doubt, he will show his full displeasure the next time there’s something that we really, really don’t want him to do. We can’t wait.