• Gemma Catherine Malak

The Diary of Jenny McFluff: Coffee & Cat Sh*t



‘For the sake of fuckery Mrs. Tinkles!’ I yell for the fourth time this morning. No, I’m not being mentally abusive to a kindly old lady—just my cat; the God forsaken thing thinks my plant is its own personal lavatory. I couldn’t make it any more appealing if I sprinkled it with catnip and stuck a sign on it with an arrow pointing to said plant saying ‘Please shit here.’


I’m late for meeting my friend Louise at the coffee shop, so I pull on some boots and scoop up the cat excrement into a green poo bag and throw it in my pocket for the bin outside (I know it’s gross to leave unattended poo in one’s pocket, but it is a fragranced bag!)


Ahhh what a lovely day, the sun is beaming and I take a deep breath in of non-cat-shit-aroma air. Bliss! As I drift along the pavement, carefree like one of those women in the tampon ads, my journey is interrupted by a portly child blocking my path. He is short and round with black spiky hair, and he is glaring at me with beady eyes, nose wrinkled up like a prune. He looks at me in disgust. I’m going to call him Scary Bob. I smile at Scary Bob and he glares at me some more. I want the little fucker to move out of my way really and let me get back into my blissful flow. It’s not that I don’t like children, I have children, well one, just one small son but he is more like a little pudding that smiles and blinks a lot, he doesn’t glare and stalk about all scary-like.


‘Excuse me’ I say politely. Scary Bob doesn’t budge, and continues to stare. Where in the name of Greek cheese triangles is this child’s mother? Maybe he was spawned from some unknown entity and appeared out of a drain like Stephen King’s IT.


‘Why are you wearing odd boots’ he says eventually in what can only be described as an eerie tone. I look down. Fuck. I have one brown boot on paired with one black one. ‘That’s weird’ he adds, and glides off through the bushes like a ghost. Weirdo.


So off I go, with a little less bounce in my odd-booted steps, aware that I look like a prize nob as the boots don’t even come up to the same length on my legs. However, I am glad to be rid of Scary Bob.


As I reach the café, I order myself a frothy cappuccino. Louise usually arrives about ten minutes later than me, and I’m usually late to begin with. I sit at a table outside and take a slurp of my coffee, as I people watch, I spy a dishy looking man two tables away. He’s got stubble on his face and floppy golden hair. He has this hot geek thing going on with a cardigan and very well fitted jeans from what I can see. Wit Woo. I am just about to resume my relaxed state when scary fucking Bob rounds the corner. Lord, he’s like one of those wasps hovering around a hamburger. He stands at my table with that glare again, and this time I look him square in his beady eyes.


‘What?’ I ask, shortly.


‘You’ve got a moustache.’ He says, and points to my upper lip.


‘Right, you little devil spawn, I’ve had enough of you. If you don’t leave me alone you won’t live long enough to grow a moustache!’ He glides off again, completely indifferent to what I said. That got rid of him anyway. Jen: 1, Scary Bob: 0.


I just begin to text Louise to ask if she’s been whisked away by a gang of angry raccoons when I see a shadow cast over my phone. I look up and the hot geek is standing there, wearing his glasses all sexy-like.


‘Humma.’ I say. Humma! That’s not even close to a word Jen, you absolute cock blocker!


‘Did you just threaten to kill my son?’ He asks, serious, and gestures to scary bloody Bob who has managed to muster some crocodile tears from the ninth gate of hell. I glance at him and the little minion smirks at me. Smirks! I stand up to my full height of five feet and four inches and begin paraphrasing what I really want to say about his son. How can that child possibly share genes with this man that made me say Humma?


Your son rather rudely approached me and told me I had a moustache, I did not actually threaten to end his life.’ I say measuredly.


‘I think what he was referring to is the milk moustache from your coffee.’ He sort of smiles, but it seems more like a smile of pity. Fuck, I overreacted. How can I salvage this?


‘Ha ha ha.’ I trill casually as I reach into my pocket for a tissue to wipe my lip. ‘I have a son as well, they have no filter do they? ha ha ha.’ Perhaps this is a fortuitous occasion, perhaps old scary pants Bob has done me a bit of a favour by introducing me to his supposed (possibly single) father, maybe this is fate…hold on, what’s that smell? My eyes narrow at the whiff of something familiar, something shitty, Oh My God, IT IS SHIT! CAT SHIT! I survey Hot Geek’s expression turn to one of disgust, and I look at my tissue to discover that it has been in the same pocket as the cat poo which I forgot about and somehow found its way out of the bag.


Hot Geek backs away without another word and just as I plan to make a quick exit, Louise appears before me. I can see her brain trying to comprehend why I’m wearing two odd boots and have cat shit smeared on my upper lip. I can’t speak, least of all because I don’t want the contents of my upper lip to fall into my mouth. Louise hands me a clean tissue, and rolls her eyes as if to say ‘this is the last time I’m bailing you out.’


Scary Bob: 1000000 Jen: Absolutely fucking zero.


© 2020 Gemma Malak

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© 2019 Gemma Catherine Malak