Scream If You Want To Go Faster

I worked until late last night. I came home on, again, a strangely empty last – or certainly very close to last – bus home. It was driven, for people who like the details, by a young lady with sparkly yellow nails, bringing some much needed glamour to the bus commute.

Anyway, I was told – via text – that I should go upstairs when I got in, in order to tuck Carole into bed and listen to her summarise her day succinctly. For twenty minutes or so.

As is reasonably often the case in these situations, I came in and mooched around downstairs for a few minutes before going up. The fact that no shouted greeting met me as I walked through the door indicating that my beloved was fast asleep.

And she was.

For someone who used to complain that the slightest light would wake her up, she was out cold on the bed upstairs, fairy lights blazing. And book held in one hand as though she had just taken a moment to have a contemplative thought about the nature of being, or something.

I gently shook her hand to wake her up. Not like I had met her, formally. I mean sort of jiggled it about a bit.

Carole awoke. Rolled over. And screamed.

Really, really loudly.

It’s not really how I want to be greeted by my little chunky KitKat, my petite dejeuner, or whatever other lovely name I can come up with for her. She’s only screamed a couple of times, to my knowledge, and the last was when she had a dream – or a visit – involving a ghostly maid who sat on the side of the bed and then flew up into the ceiling.

Having said that, though, I’ve woken up loads of times to discover Carole staring right at me or just looming over my resting body. So it was kind of nice to entirely give her the willies for a change.

Unless that makes me a bad person, in which case…

No, sod it revenge has been a long time coming…