As a child, one of the things that terrified me the most were vampires.
I can't remember the specific event that triggered this fear, although I do remember one incident when I inadvertently walked in on my parents watching a film version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot right at the moment when the recently disappeared young boy is floating outside the bedroom window of one of his friends encouraging him to let him in.
I well imagine that had something to do with my fear of vampires.
For years I slept with a giant, stuffed lion beside me, believing it to be all the protection I needed from the creatures of the night.
Until now.
Monsters have taken residence under my bed.
Terrifying monsters.
Hell bent on waking me up in the early hours of the morning as they attempt to scratch and claw their way out of the dark spaces under the bed.
Noisy little things, they are.
Hissing and spitting.
Deep, low growls rumbling from the netherspaces of their being.
Jasper is the ringleader.
Slinking around in the middle of the night.
Tempting the other cats with his need for naughtiness.
Dibley looks serene, quiet.
He does spend most of the day sleeping.
But during the evening and throughout the night, he, too, prowls about the house.
Unlike Jasper, the excitable new kid on the block who is energized by the desire to create trouble, Dibley is more about letting the others situate themselves and then entering the situation when he is the least expected.
And of course, Goblet.
The site of the night time shenanigans is in our room, under our bed, in Goblet's mind her domain.
Therefore, she feels it is only appropriate that she join into the fray, the fracas.
She is, afterall, the one who engages in the most hissing and spitting.
Quite frustrating when you're desperate for a good night's kip before facing the vagaries of the following day.
I only hope that in the coming days and weeks the monsters under the bed will cease and desist their activities so a good night's sleep can reign again.
As weekends continue to be an element of my everyday life, it occurs to me that the weekdays are less stressful and more relaxing than the weekends.
Em and I had made plans to go to the market yesterday.
Saturday market.
Gorgeous day.
The last Saturday of the Harvest Jazz and Blues Festival.
Sum total: market moving from its usual psychotic to absolutely calamitous.
After noshing on samosas, slurping freshly squeezed orange juice (for me) and banana strawberry non-dairy smoothies (for Em), selecting ten homemade falafels and touring around to see what was new and exciting, we headed to Klub Soda where Em had an appointment for a much needed trim.
After which time we were supposed to head home as I had work to do, people to email, things to take care of, mother's to visit at the nursing home . . . .
And yet, somehow, in spite of all that was awaiting me, I never managed to make it home until almost 4.00 pm.
Sidelined by Em's request to see a movie.
Dirty, dirty tactics, my Em.
She knows how to play her mummy.
Off to the mall to see Straw Dogs.
A colossal waste of time, in spite of the potential.
Don't waste your time or money.
Don't even rent it, order it through television, watch it online.
Time you'll never get back.
Today equally busy.
All day Quaker meeting.
Mum this evening.
Squeezing in grocery shopping.
Hopefully.
Weekends.
Yeah, right.
Title Lyric: Monsters Under the Bed by Eugene MacGuiness
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