Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Please, Not Like This, I'm Wearing DangerMouse Knickers and Mismatching Socks!
So, one thing you've got to understand about me is I have a completely over-active imagination. If I see a leaf fly past my bedroom, it has not simply fallen off a tree, it has been kicked off the roof by a serial killer who is stalking along the side of the house, preparing to swing down, launch themselves through my bedroom window, kill me with a crow bar, and then eat my head whilst they try on all of my bras. In honour of Hallowe'en, the five year anniversary of the time I accidentally got myself suspended from school and therefore a very special day for me, I am going to regale you all with a tale of horror from earlier on in my week that, due to aforementioned over-active imagination, turned into one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
I arrived home from work at approximately 8:46pm on Thursday evening. It was a cold, rainy October night and the low fog that had been hanging over my village for the past week seemed denser than usual, as though the weather was shielding from me something sinister, something... evil. A black cat crossed my path, averting its eyes so as not to meet my gaze, letting out a long, mournful meow. I continued on, a chill making its way up my spine as the cat meowed again. Reaching the middle of the street, I looked up at my house, silhouetted against the backdrop of a starless sky. Three witches stood outside, a bubbling cauldron in front of them. The cat meowed once more. My blood ran cold. "Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd!"
Wait. Hang on. That's Macbeth... That's not what happened, I got confused. What did happen, however, was I got home and my house alarm was wailing, leading me to the natural conclusion that a killer was in there and, as my mum was away for the night in London (globe trotter that she is), there was no way that I was about to enter the house alone. I ran in, did a quick shufti around the kitchen to check the coast was clear, entered the alarm code so it stopped screaming the street down (thanks for coming to help by the way, neighbours...), and then legged it back out onto my drive and rang my dad.
"There's a killer in the house," was my opening line, to which I could practically hear my dad rolling his eyes. "Come round immediately and save your child."
Instead of turning up at my house as fast as humanly possible and acting as my protector, my dad insisted on staying on the phone as I circled the house, whimpering, and checked that none of the windows had been broken into. May I just say, not the same. After resting assured that no one had squeezed their way through the downstairs bathroom window with an axe, I plucked up all my courage and went through the front door, still occasionally spitting words like "killer" and "precious baby girl" down the phone to my dad. On his advice, I turned around to lock the door (still keeping my keys in my hand in case I had to use them to fight off enemies) and noticed that my hand was covered in blood. Blood. If the house alarm wasn't enough reason for me to have a legitimate freak out, a limb covered in blood of an unknown provenance definitely was. I was now having a full on nervy b (nervous breakdown, obviously) whilst my dad, who was acting almost insultingly cavalier given the situation, told me to run my hand under the tap and check I'd not just accidentally cut myself. Determined to be correct about a killer, I begrudgingly rinsed my hand, realising as I did so that there was a cut on my finger that I must have acquired from the pebble dashing as I went around the back of the house, not feeling it due to the sheer amount of terror-induced adrenaline pumping through my body. The appearance of blood had put me on red alert and I crept slowly and cautiously around the house, checking each room twice, making sure my dad was prepared to send help if I was suddenly viciously attacked by a serial killer wearing my bra. By the time I got to the bathroom, I was certain that someone was in there. If you've ever watched a horror film, then you'll know that the bathroom is always the killer's chosen hang out spot, and the chances of me finding one in there were (in my head) very high. It was at this moment that my hilarious father decided to yell, "ARRGHH!" down the phone, very nearly sending me into cardiac arrest and prompting an early death. As my life flashed before my eyes, all I could think was, "Please, not like this, I'm wearing DangerMouse knickers and mismatching socks!" Decidedly uncool. My father obviously did not care in the slightest that his precious baby girl, his youngest child, was about to have her eyeball sockets turned into condiment holders.
As it transpired, there was no killer in the house. Well, either that, or they are still in hiding, which is quite impressive and, fair play to them, they deserve to kill me, eat me, and wear as much of my underwear as they like. They can even have my DangerMouse knickers.