On the rare evenings I get some time alone in the flat, a thought will flash across my mind: “If someone was going to kill me, this would be an opportune moment.” Of course, I don’t think someone is actually going to kill me. When I think about it for more than a few seconds my rational mind wins out, reminding me that I watch too many BBC thrillers. “Anyway,” says my logical brain, “usually, in a crime drama, when the young woman home alone is killed by the stranger lurking in the garden, she’s wearing a sexy nightie, or tight office outfit, not joggers and an oversized Ayia Napa 2009 T-shirt.”
I breathe a sigh of relief knowing my fashion choices will protect me. Yet the paranoia can creep in. A hot soak in the bath sounds great, but I can’t help but ponder what would happen if someone crept in and shoved me under the bubbles. I wonder what I could use as a weapon, concluding that the jar of coconut oil would work best. “Coconut oil,” I muse, “cook with it, moisturise with it, kill with it. It really is a superfood.”
I’m excited to have a night in front of the telly, but an idea pops into my mind about keeping the volume low in case it distracts me from the sound of someone breaking in. How quickly could I run to the back door, I wonder, putting a reminder on my phone: “go for more runs”. What if they come in through the back door? Well, then they’d have to get past the cat, but her only skill is waking me up at dawn and occasionally puking in corners. Didn’t I see once on YouTube that a cat saved its owner’s life by calling 911?
“Siri, find me the news clip about a cat rescuing its owner.”
But not before a thud from the flat upstairs makes me jump. “It’s just Derek,” I soothe myself, before wondering how much I really know about Derek, other than that he orders lots of organic veg. Why does one man need so much organic veg? Maybe he’s feeding others, I gasp – hostages! – before my logical brain chips in: “Very unusual for a murderer to be so nutritionally conscious.”
I think about joining friends at the pub, but stop myself. Being alone (and being able to enjoy it) is like a muscle that needs exercising. I will learn to fully relax and love these quiet moments eventually. It’s because I have hardly ever been at home alone my whole life – between my family and flatmates, there’s usually always been someone around. Although I suppose someone still is: Siri, how are you today?
