He then decides it's time for a cuddle. He'll climb up on your lap, and slowly edge up your chest until his nose is 6" away from your nose, and will pad you and purr like a mad dervish. He'll also stick out his tongue a bit, just to make himself look more cutesy and to lower your guard even further.
Then, gas impending, he'll decide he doesn't want you to hear the fart, so he'll sneeze to disguise it and immediately jump off and run out the room. "I've done a goodun'," he'll say to himself, "so I'm off!" to be followed by the rattle of the cat flap as he legs it out for fresh air.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime, myself, John and Tania (when she's here) are all gagging. The air is green from obnoxious gasses, and blue from the swearing. What can only be described as faintly like cat food, crossed with strong cabbage and mouldy cheese is sitting well in the room like a mustard gas. The super concentrated aerosols for the automated Airwick Haze thingies are the only smells powerful enough to neutralise the chemical warfare, and within 10 minutes all is forgotten about.
Then Turvy appears at the door.
