T'was a dark and relatively overcast night a long time ago

(Since our last burglary incident, and with the insurance not having
replaced the door yet, I was forced to sleep on a mattress in my
parent's room as my door wouldn't close anymore, let alone lock. The
story takes place there)

I was lying there all trying to sleep and stuff when I heard a noise that sounded like somebody walking on the roof!

I sat up and said "Do you hear that?" but alas, their snoring bellowed
even louder in their ears than it did mine.
Later, I heard lots of cutlery moving! They were coming to
hack us to pieces!
"Did you hear THAT?" but once again, only my ears seemed sharp enough
for the tin-ey tinkle of knives and forks being selectively sifted
through until the perfect size, shape and pointyness was found.
Suddenly, they clumsily bashed into the wall with their selection in
hand. It was big! Nothing compares to the sound of a knife clumsily
being hit against the wall, the sound is simply unmistakable.
"You MUST'VE heard that!" By now, I was annoyed that I would be the
only one being chopped up without pleasant thoughts beforehand.
"MOM! Push the friggin' panic button!"
"Eh? But why?"
"Are you in some sort of sleepy daze?! Pass it here, I'll push it!"

And then I heard them go the wrong way down the passage. They had
donned squeaky shoes suddenly! How DARE they put squeaky shoes on! The
absolute audacity to add some childish humour to their brutal attack
was making me angry.

And then the fireworks started. Huh? In the passage?

Eventually I got up, marched over to the panic button but was stopped half
way by an indistinguishable sound...my dad's breathing. I stopped and
just listened. It changed from sounding like some sort of injured
animal to fireworks to cutlery and then, lo and behold, squeaky shoes!

How relieved I was that it was just my dad's peculiar breathing I'd been hearing and not someone wearing squeaky shoes armed with a knife and fireworks coming to murder us!

The walking on the roof was long gone. Probably somebody taking a short cut to rob the house next door.

When people shove religion and sex at you

I had recently re-established contact with a friend and at first our
polite and friendly chit chat was great!
However, it was starting to seem as if she was steering me in
the direction of religion.
No, you don't understand. She's not a bible-puncher, she'll outright knock your lights out with it! I kid you not!
I was just waiting for the email that asked if I'd "found Jesus yet?" I had a few responses in mind including, "Is he hiding?", "No, why? Did you pack him into my stuff when I moved? Is that legal?" and "Yes, he was here a minute ago. Said he'd be right back for me but don't say anything, you're not meant to know that you're
not invited." O.k, I didn't but this was going to get weird and awkward
and I didn't want that.
Actually, I had another idea. There was this chop at work who called me
'Nigella'. It's from that KFC ad. Anyway, he was bordering on
a slap but instead I got his number and got her to phone him and teach him to right his wrongful ways.

I used to think that people could be divided into a few distinct categories: Those who are married and need a new hobby and so they become over-religious, those who are married and normal, those who would desperately do anything to be married, those who would desperately do anything to be normal, those who would desperately do
anything not to be married, those who just desperately do anything and those who are just normal. And me. And probably you too.

Crazy exploits of the dumped and depressed

It was a freezing cold Monday morning when I boarded the train and
spotted a familiar face sitting in the corner engrossed in a book. I
shuffled over and plonked myself down opposite her. She looked up from
her book and smiled at me. We did the usual "oh my word! I haven't
seen you for ages!" chitchat and she put her book away.
I hadn't seen her in almost 2 months and although we didn't know
each other very well, there was a connection that people have from
similar experiences.
The topic turned to men. She had been dumped, not for any particular reason other than "it wasn't going anywhere". She was now in the anger stage and was having vivid, angry fantasies about getting some novice cellists, or just anyone off the street would do,to pitch up at her ex's flat at 3am every morning for a week, and just practice.
I decided that I had to intervene. Not only would she most likely get into trouble with the police, but her ex was my neighbour.
We spoke a lot about how things change and how people change and in the
end decided that she should continue with her therapy and that I
should probably start.

So, next time you want to throttle someone, find someone else who's
been there and listen to how idiotic and hilarious in is in retrospect
and it may just save you from having to fix your dancing shoes from
frantic midnight escapades in the mud. Ahem.