No, I'm not talking about Stuart. I'm talking about the imaginary, scary bogeymonster who I'm sure is going to spend the next couple of nights tormenting me.
My name is Nikki. I am 35 and I'm scared of the dark. Well, technically not scared of the dark as such, but not a big fan of being the only adult in the house between the hours of 11pm and 6am. I know, I know, how embarrassing and how totally irrational.
I do a good line in irrational however and am relatively phobic. I used to have to down a litre of spirits (whatever time of day or night it was) before getting on a plane and would then be really drunk and hysterical for the entire flight. I luckily had some very tolerant friends who would still go on holiday with me through my teens and my twenties (and some not so tolerant Best Friends Shelley Clegg/Williams who would find the whole thing hilarious!). My parents however, said they were never, ever getting on a plane with me again after we returned from a rather traumatic flight from New Zealand where I managed to drink first-class dry of Dom Perignon and overdosed on valium; so I decided that it might be time to do something about it. BA run a marvellous 'Fear of Flying' course which involves spending a Saturday at a hotel full of pilots in Heathrow :-) and then flying around in circles with the aforementioned pilots until you are cured. Genius. Best £300 I ever spent.
I don't think that there is a professional body organising 'Fear of the Bogeyman' courses, more's the pity. I know it is illogical and ridiculous. When the aforementioned Shelley and I shared a flat, we were both as rubbish as each other. If one of us was away for a night the other one would spend a petrified night cowering under the duvet and greet the returning one with everlasting love, gratitude and heavily bagged eyes the next day. Why on earth we thought one other pissed blonde bird in the flat would be any more use against a burglar/axe-murderer/bogeyman in the middle of the night I don't know, but, when we were both there, we slept blissfully and deeply.
So, this brings me back to my current state of affairs. My husband has gone away for a big gay weekend to Brighton with our best man. Good luck to them. Stu certainly is owed a good few lie-ins and deserves a blow-out. Blow-OUT I said you filthy minded lot. I am not adverse to my own company (course not - I'm fucking hilarious), and as I write I'm revelling in not sharing neither the remote control or the champagne. However, I know come three am I will be stalking imaginary burglars/axe-murderers/bogeymen around my landing.
Maybe blogging will be somehow act in a cathartic way and make me man-up a little. I'm definitely harder than I used to be, you don't see me running to my parents' this weekend like I used to, do you? That obviously has nothing whatever to do with the fact they are currently in Greece.....
No comments:
Post a Comment