Sparkling told me the other night she had not slept well, so our conversation was pretty short. I hope she slept better last night, an uninterrupted sleep, a deep sleep and one from which she woke up feeling refreshed. However last night my sleep was interrupted and it led to me waking up and being kinda slow as I did the zombie walk while making breakfast.
Sometimes when sleeping there are outside disturbances, and if these disturbances are brief, even though loud I'll sleep through them. But if they recur then it's likely I'll be woken up. Or if I am on special guard duty then I'll wake up to anything. This morning it happened at 2 a.m. There was a sound from downstairs, the kitchen. It was loud enough to pierce through my dream world, where again I think I was getting lost in some foreign city. I opened my eyes, I had even heard a door slide open and close. Bed was so nice and warm, I just wanted to sleep some more. Yet knew I had to stay conscious, I had to listen out, just in case the noise occurred again, then I'd have no choice, it would have to be investigated. In reality at the back of my mind I could see someone running off with a bag with "SWAG" written over it. I didn't mind, because being warm in bed and relaxed was more important. The silent moment passed and again I heard the banging and knocking about. It was definitely coming from the kitchen. The "no-alternative" option kicked in, bollocks I got to check it out. I crept downstairs quite calmly. I didn't want to disturb the intruder although it was quite OK for them to wake me up. I got to the kitchen door which was closed, gently placed my left hand on the handle and as an image of a balaclava'd hoodlum flashed into my conscious mind I then screwed up the fist of my right hand. The plan was simple. Whoever it is was going to get busted in the chops. I pulled the kitchen door open, fast and then reached round the door frame with my left hand to switch the light on. Instantly bright I then saw nothing. Nothing at all. Yet some things looked out of place, I couldn't put a finger on it. The next moment I saw the cat "stinky" he was crouched down and running like a ground hugging torpedo out of the kitchen, passed my feet and up the stairs. Attached somehow to him was a plastic bag and the panic stricken moggy just didn't know how to get the thing off.
I went and found him cowering in the airing cupboard and a torn disheveled plastic bag on the floor. I tried to move him but he wouldn't go, even flicking some water on him. He just tucked himself into a corner, looking quite pathetic. He was psychologically traumatised. I don't know how long he had been running about like an demon possessed, but he had. Poor thing. The silly sod now would need some counselling. Maybe the supermarket I got the bag from would subsidise it I thought.
In a few minutes I had re closed the kitchen door, put Tigger the old boy cat into the kitchen, because the two of them don't get on, and then I went to bed. About two hours later I probably dropped off again. But when I did get up in the morning I bloody ran round after Stinky with an empty plastic bag to get him to go downstairs rather than stay up stairs. For even when you are upstairs the plastic bag demons can still get you. I hope he learnt the lesson.
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