It was the scream that woke me, that high pitched shattering, get the fuck out of bed now, something horrendous, possibly involving the loss of a limb type scream. I was half way down the bed trying to put both feet in one leg of my pyjama bottoms before my brain had actually caught up with me and tried to wake it’s self up, quite unsuccessfully I might add. The scream kept coming as I fell from the bed and landed heavily on one knee. “Fuck” I muttered, to be fair I say fuck a lot, it’s a disgusting habit but I don’t smoke or poke kittens with sticks so I figure the odd expletive here and there won’t kill me. I got to the door frame and leant , my eyes still crusted over and my brain way behind the rest of my body the screaming stops, there is a peaceful lull and just for the tiniest of a second I trick myself in to believing the storm has passed and I gently start to slide back in to sleep all the while my forehead pressed firmly against the frame of the door.
Shit, bollocks, fuck buckets!!! The scream makes me jump which bounces my head off the door that has quietly closed against my back and I stumble out on to the hallway not knowing if it’s the noise or the smack to my skull causing that slight throbbing that is just starting to brew. I head down to the door the noise is coming from and push it open. No sign of anybody, the bed is empty but the noise continues. My sleep addled brain can’t compute this and I stand staring with my mouth open for a few seconds fairly confident I have drooled down my chin, then I look down and spot the tiny foot sticking out from under the bed and the start of a tiny pyjammed leg, the foot look angry as only feet at that time of the morning sticking out from under a bed can. The scream changes and becomes an almost intelligible sentence. “G’way, g’way, I flurble, mumble, gurgle you.” Against every instinct that tells me this is a bad idea I bend down and look under the bed taking a foot to the nose for the privilege. “Say again?” 2 small eyes fix me with a death stare as I had dared to break the under the bed sanctuary and the words come again, “Go away, I hate you!” ‘ah, I see’ I stand up and look at the phone in my hand, which somehow I still managed to grab as I fell out of bed. I guess I know where my priorities lie in a house fire. , 5.45am. This began my day with The Boy Child. This is why I am drinking Bacardi at 7.30pm, blogging and wondering at what point exactly can I climb back in to my bed and wait for it all to start again in the morning.