284. Automatic writing under heavy stress

I drove home tonight after a dinner with friends and the little pink car was all alone on the country roads under a clear night sky with millions of stars and a bright half-moon fighting for attention.

I drove through the village and all the houses were dark, no-one taking a walk to spot the shooting stars. I opened the gate in the dark, parked the little pink car and went back to close it in the dark. (The little pink car does not have follow me home lights.)

I crossed the small expanse of burned grass and found the key-hole thanks to the street light oddly positioned at the end of the village on the edge of the wood (so martens find their way to my house?).

I went through the ritual of banging the down spout and rattling the gutter a little. I went inside and turned all the lights on and tuned the radio on pop music as loud as could be reasonable this time of night. All this has become my evening ritual. (The nearest neighbours are tourists that only stay a week so by the time they are absolutely certain the lady next-door is a lunatic it's time for them to go back home.) 

I sit downstairs for a bit, outside to watch the stars, while I wait for the martens to pack their day-bags and go and party somewhere else. I make a note of someday going up the attic to see what's up there. Empty bottles? Overflowing ashtrays? Soggy pizza boxes? I must remember. Tomorrow. I am not scared. I can handle this. This is good practice for rhinos and elephants. This is a good practice for the TGA.

I pour myself a strong drink and start dancing on my own to the tune on the radio. Then I stop. I don't want the party animals to move the party to the bottom floor. 

Then I see something I had not notice. Aaaaaaaaaaaah!!! Oh no! Oh no no no no no no! I start screaming like the mad woman that I am and rush up the stairs slamming the door behind me. I go into the bedroom and throw myself on the bed and hide under the covers.

I realise I am stuck on the first floor, sandwiched between the headbangers under the eaves and the monster on the ground floor. What am I going to do? 

I sob into the pillows, stifling under the covers, all on my own to deal with the many dangers a solo life in the little ramshackle house by the woods. How will I cope with tigers and crocodiles and rhinos? I won't. That's the truth. We're going to have the sell the vehicle and think up of something more appropriate for the scaredy pants that I am.

Maybe I could call the pompiers. They're usually very good. They get cats down from trees and stuff.

I get out from under the covers. It is far too hot for this childish attitude these days. I push the door a tiny tiny tiny bit to see if it safe.