Once the girls invited me to a hen party, I promised my husband that I would definitely be home by 12. It's not even up for discussion. The champagne was exquisite and time flew by unnoticed, arriving home dead drunk, quietly opened the front door, and the cuckoo in the wall-clock cuckooed exactly four times. Without losing my composure, I imitated the cuckoo's voice and cuckooed another eight times, marveling at my ingenuity and wit, and went to bed. The next day at breakfast, my husband asked me what time I came back, responding to him in an unperturbed voice that it was exactly 12. I clarified that when I entered cuckoo cuckooed 12 times. Yes, I heard, said my husband. I thought, well, that went well. But after a minute of silence, he continued, you know, dear, we need to change that cuckoo in the clock. Why? I asked, my husband continued, you know. Yesterday when you came back, it cuckooed four times. Then it said, holy crap, cuckooed four more times. Then it sniffled and spat on the floor, cuckooed two more times, giggled mischievously, and after cwing the remaining two times, stepped on the cat, slipped, and fell heavily onto the park.