The other day I woke up happy. I’d had a nice dream about a Vegas/Venice hybrid city, where I zoomed along clear blue water highways in a floating pink limo, stopping off outside casinos and having cocktails brought straight to my outlandish water taxi.
Then I took a trip to the bathroom, where everything fell apart.
It was the smell that hit me first; it’s always the smell.
Two steaming brown piles stood about a foot apart, like sentinels, underneath the small window. I sighed, then gagged because I’d taken a breath in order to sigh. Leaving the bathroom, staggering and clutching the banister like I’d witnessed a brutal murder, I remembered Catshit Mountain.
Catshit Mountain is a place of evil. A patch of decrepit carpet in the corner of a forgotten room, where rumours of once clean litter trays have passed into house mythology.
Now, there are just layers of crinkled newspaper sticking out at all angles, hiding similar brown piles in dark places between the financial pages. Nobody mentions it because this is a house rule: Rule #1 You do not talk about Catshit Mountain. Rule #2 You. Do. Not. Talk. About. Catshit. Mountain.
So I think about Catshit Mountain. I look back in the bathroom. I breathe in a last gasp of clean, fresh air, and shuffle downstairs to find the rubber gloves.