This morning, blissfully unaware I am being watched, I stroll back and forward to the bathroom. Times like these I miss my old house and its ensuite. But oh well, we adapt. My bedroom sits atop the lounge room, a mezzanine sort of thing, with about five stairs to take you to the upper bedroom level.
As part of my morning routine, I loiter the top story of my house in underwear with music blaring. My current album of choice, Human by Rag’n’Bone Man, requires a lot of singing along. And we all know that singing is better the louder you can push it out.
Realising my bras were all downstairs in the laundry, damn it, I grabbed my t-shirt dress of the day to head downstairs. Pretty comfortable with the whole naked in my house thing, I started to make my way to the laundry. Topless. Music continuing to blast from my iPhone.
Rounding the corner of the split staircase, I caught sight of a man in high vis and let out a deep, raspy half scream, half what the actual fuck. Shit. Panic rushed through my veins and I thought how ridiculous it is that I’m going to be fighting for my life in my underwear.
Until, a familiar voice questioned soothingly, if I was okay.
Kel was there, home to grab some supplies, apparently. He had called out to me, apparently, and I hadn’t heard him (entirely possible). With my heart pounding in my ears and my dress still clutched to my chest, I made my way downstairs to get dressed. Shit, I mumbled, such bullshit, I need a coffee.
I don’t know about you guys, but a fright like that beats a 30 minute cardio session any old day of the week. I’m pretty sure my heart was beating, my body on high alert, for hours afterwards. Panic apparently burns calories, so I had an extra-large coffee and a croissant for breakfast and called it square.
When was the last time you got a fright? Was it a real or imagined threat?