Foibles

I have a very active and wondering imagination. Part of me, well a lot of me, still feels guilty when I give a particular cuddly toy more attention than the others.


My imagination does not extend to scary stories, horror films, monsters, bogeymen etc. I don't know why but I just don't get scared. Ever.


Mr B, however, cannot watch horror films. He hates them. He hates them more than, possibly, anyone else I know. He refuses to watch them. They affect him greatly. But not me! I take great pleasure in laughing at his fear when he catches a glimpse of an advert for say, The Ring, on tv. Sometimes I pretend to jump in a tense and scary film scene when I know he's feeling frightened, just to see him jump out of his skin.


But recently, well ever since I started driving across a train crossing each day on my way to work and imagining my certain death, I've begun frightening myself with other imaginings.


Last night, as I put the car in the garage, in the pitch dark, a thought came over me. As I drive in someone very scary could slam the door shut behind me, trapping me in my garage. As well as this horrifying revelation, said scary-person would also now have my keys and could ransack my house, possibly even letting Meisha escape in the process. Perhaps I should take the garage key off my house keys, so that the scary person wouldn't be able to unlock my front door. Perhaps I should try perfecting getting out of my car extra-quickly, so I wouldn't be trapped. Or perhaps I should stop these nonsensical thoughts and carry on as normal.


Mr B's paranoia is most-definately rubbing off on me...