Wet wet wet wet wet

19 October 2000
George is feeling a little under the weather.

The first point being that the cat hasn't been seen since yesterday afternoon. Not that this would normally be a cause for concern; under the usual circumstances the only thing to worry about would be whether little Prometheus was urinating on the i-Book or dissecting dead mice on the living room rug. But this time I'm really worried; I'm not going to get upset about the blood on the Axminster when the rain's still pouring down and the cat isn't back yet.

See, none of us seven were worried when the showers started. It's the autumn and it's the south coast of England. As James said, there would've been more press coverage if we'd had a nice Indian summer and could have continued sunbathing until the beginning of October. Rain? Pshaw. Even when the roof of Matt's car started to drip and dripped on him on the way to work, that provided more comedy value about his new suit being ruined than any dark rumblings of fear. The second point being that we weren't prepared; didn't have the time to make sandbags or stockpile instant noodles (just add water) before any of us knew what was going on.

Thirdly? Well, the damn local media didn't know either. No mention of what was to come from John Brightly and Carol at six-thirty in the roundup of stories from your area, and certainly not from jovial Douggie Dougan with his comedy slot of local mishaps in the last five minutes. For Christ's sake - did no-one notice that for five nights running every jape and upset was water-related? Even we seven reprobates picked up on the link between the flooded allotments ("Prize marrow floated"!), the graffiti by the bus shelter being washed off, the fish deposited in the retirement home garden after the river split its banks ("Fish on Friday? It's fish every day in Rosedean!").

Dan got washed away ten days after the rain started, and that was when the fear kicked in. Like the cat really - he trundled off to the office on the Wednesday and didn't come back. I feel like such a shit for saying this, but really, we didn't notice for a few days. The absence of Buffy, Angel and Dawson should have been a sign, but I personally was so busy rifling through his comic collection undisturbed (and the bastard didn't tell me about the early edition Thundercats he'd got, did he?) that I didn't care. Divine retribution really - the evening after we'd learnt that he wasn't coming home, the ceiling to his attic room collapsed and the water destroyed half of what was in there. Douggie D cheerfully informed the soggy viewing public that several bodies has been washed up on the next to the pier, one of whom was his grandmother and one of whom was Dan. I certainly thought that we were all coping as well as could be expected with the awful news when the camera panned up against those auburn locks and lifeless cheekbones and that was when Jamie got hysterical and had to be slapped by James.

Living in a large house together for ten years, you'd think that we all get on and are able to pull together in a time of crisis. Fourthly, no. Jamie, as mentioned, was in no fit state discuss survival tactics and needed pacification with fondant fancies. Neil ran around making tea for all but offering no constructive criticism. Victor's grand fucking master plan was to buy sturdy twine and rope ourselves to "solid household instruments", so that when the torrents flooded through, we remaining six would be firmly attached to the washing machine and the Edwardian bathtub. Almost unbelievably Matt thought that this would be a fantastic idea, and the pair of them headed out to a hardware store. Which was of course under ten feet of water by that stage. They didn't return.

Since then? The clowns became very productive. All of Dan and Victor's floor-length leather coats were sewn into waterproof covers - I demonstrated needlework skills that I didn't know I possessed - and SOS flares made of last year's fireworks. All the time, the rain kept coming down and the street outside turned into a canal. Initial thoughts were to try to construct a dingy to sail away on but we had to abandon that when more pressing events occurred; the top floor broke from the weight of water and we had to decamp into the lounge. Game after game of canasta and Black Maria was played; Poker, betting our eyelashes.

Fifthly, we killed Jamie. Sixthly, we ate Neil.

Jamie had become such a mess by this stage. Maybe we were putting him out of his misery, but to be honest we were putting ourselves out of our misery. The constant grizzling. Eating the food supplies when he thought that no-one was looking, and hiding food behind the bookcase for midnight snacks. Grinding his teeth. Making snide comments about how he'd liked Dan best and wouldn't it have been better if James or I had been found under the pier instead. After three days of this I cracked and beat him senseless with the (now defunct) i-Book. It was only when his crumb-strewn corpse had been hauled out of the window that the next problem was discovered; the food supplies were nearly gone. And Neil, selfless Neil, lovely Neil, reasoning that it was a far better thing for him to do, offered himself up as shish kebab.

Which brings me on to point seven. Or indeed back to point one. James and I are nearly done with Neil; only some rump steak and a bit of leg is left, and we started on him over four days ago. See, when Neil runs out I'm not sure what happens next; I'm smaller and weaker than James and don't fancy my chances much when he gets hungry. If Prometheus comes back though, then I can probably stave him off for a day or two which is enough time to escape and swim downstream, maybe to another house or into a slipstream towards a Red Cross camp somewhere. But the cat isn't back yet. And I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon.