The Hoover idea helped, but my hoover cuts out if it overheats (and then won't start again for several hours), so an hour after the first pyrotechnics, with the bangs still going out there like a fucking war movie, I've had to switch the bastard thing off so it can cool down and just turn my speakers up to eleven.

it helps a little. of course between the hoover, the aggressive rock music (I'm on to Iggy Pop now) and the fireworks the cats are all hiding so Spike has no distractions. He's a small trembling heap over by the door. He's two-thirds of his normal size, all except his eyes which have doubled. He's off his face on Rescue Remedy which is stopping him barking himself hoarse.

I wish to fuck Guy Fawkes had succeeded. Not because I give a shit about far-reaching political implications (or even have an idea what they might be) but because then it might have been considered in bad taste to set off fucking explosions all fucking autumn.

am going to hug my collie now. bastards.

Edit: Bonus! I found out where those maggots were coming from. Fucking Cassie and her obsession with covering food dishes. She'd dragged a pair of my trousers out of the wardrobe, covered a half-empty food dish with it and bundled the whole thing behind the door, where I completely failed to find it till now. Am not attempting to salvage either trousers or food dish.
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