I'm home alone for a couple of days. Its always a bit strange when it goes from a house of five to just me.
I can eat dinner when I want. I can have what I want without having to give consideration to anyone else.
I can watch whatever I want on television. I can turn television off when I feel like it.
I can go to the toilet and leave the door open.
I can go to bed and have quiet – not people thumping up and down the hallway at all hours.
I have the car – all to myself. I can be reckless and drive to the shops and the library. On different occasions. Without asking if anyone needs the car to take to work.
And I can do all this again tomorrow.
But I'm not very good at sleeping in the house by myself. I hear things that go bump in the night. I have a super duper active imagination. And even though I've never had a psychotic maniac with a chainsaw break into the house, I'm alway sure that the night I'm home alone, is the night he'll show up.
And why did I ever read that book by James Patterson where the freak hid in the airconditioning duct and spied on the girl while she was in bed. Because there's something in my roof. I'm pretty sure it's a rat because it goes scratch, scratch, scratch like a rat. But sometimes I think it might be a Splicer. Has anyone read The Traveller. Nasty Splicers in that – rip you to shreds they will.
I always consider the danger hours to be between 2am and 4am. Anything can happen then. I used to work on the reception desk of a motel and I did 10pm to 7am shift. And 2am to 4am was freaky. Really quiet. Was always a relief when the sun came up.
But I do have a very good book – Bird of Paradise – about Mary Robinson who was an actress and early feminist who was around in the 1700's. I must admit I knew nothing of her but I'm enjoying it and shall read until I'm so tired I will hopefully sleep soundly all night.