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Shit! I'm sorry Cam, that sounds really crazy! Glad you're ok, though....
Here's my tale, from December 2004:
Wake up. Hungover. Ugh. Obviously, the only way to combat such a thing as being awake is sleep. So, back to sleep. On and off again for a few hours. What time is it? Ehhhhh. Need sleep. Cool water. Water good.
Someone knocks on the door? Whu? Go way. Retreat in to pillow. Normally, my parents would be around to answer the door, but they are in Devon. I like to ignore people at the door. I mean, if I don't know who it is and why you're coming over, it's highly likely I do not wish to speak with you.
Man shouts through letter box, "Hello, I've come about the dog". Right, I think, You have thw wrong house, therefore you will leave.
Man does not leave. Knocks on the knocker, knocks on the door... bit over-zealous, I think, desperately hoping he will leave soon so I can get back to the more important matters of my day: sleeping.
He. Just. Won't. Stop! Am I going to have to open my window and tell him to fuck off? I am hungover enough to be just that irritable. I mean really. GO AWAY.
He still hasn't stopped knocking. I hear the porch doors slam VERY loudly. Right, has he gone in disgust? I am very annoyed at this behaviour though, and have sat up. He hasn't gone at all... glass breaking? What?
Is someone in the house? What is going on? Putting on clothes, quickly... why am I bothering with a belt? Fuck. Get shirt on... why am I doing it up... panic does not hide shyness, cannot show flesh. Still not sure what is happening, panic rising...
Top of stairs, movement... glass of front door broken, BROKEN IN. Man, leaving quickly... I shoot baffled look.
Run after him, in to front garden. He is running up the street, girl looks questioning. Everyone else enjoying a quiet Sunday.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Still confused, go inside, what the fuck what the fuck? Call someone. Call ex girlfriend! Don't want to tell parents yet, argh, Just want somebody to tell me what to do. Decide this is not what somebody prone to panic attacks needs. Especially someone who spends a lot of time alone worrying about people invading personal space. MY HOUSE.
Ali at work. Fuck fuck. Phone Mum. Now this is actually happening.
Phone police. Why did it seem silly to phone before? "He's running up my road, towards the shops!", why did that seem silly, bizarre?
Actually happening, actually happening. I need to brush my teeth before I deal with anyone. I smell bad. There's always time to squeeze in some extra neurotic worry.
The policemen arrive while I am still talking to the police on the phone. Impressive, reassuring. Still not dressed right.
This is one of the things I have feared most, forced in to being around people, unavoidable. Argh. Strangely calm. Police leave quickly, suspect spotted.
Clean teeth.
Police deal. Someone arrested. Phone lots of people. Realise my wallet is gone. £4 in change. Don't care. Old personal photos, drawings I'd forgotten to take out gone. PISSED. I never look at them, just reassured by them being there. Annoyed that someone can take away a bit of what me and my ex had.
Twat.
Try to get people to come and hang around with me, all a bit weird. Finally talk to ex. Kind of enjoy her being annoyed about me phoning her five times before telling her what's up. Ali can't get here... finally track down friend. Friend of mine I've never really spoken to talks to me on phone for over one and a half hours. Is nice. Strange way to make a new friend, but glad she chose to phone.
Decide best way to deal is to make bad jokes and escalate everything to include knife fights and beating people to death with my bare hands. Question the stylistic choices of burglars. Rubbish puffer jacket? Come on. It screams "I am a criminal". It was the only distinguishing thing about you. Clearly you need a good hat to be good at crime: you are lacking.
Friend brings chocolate. Parents back.
Have nap.
Go pub.
Decide to fight crime.
(I really need a fucking drink.) |
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