My Stalker

I've had to leave the house. I'm sat in a coffee shop, sketching this post out in my Moleskine notebook while I sip a latte. I sometimes think that if I met the 18 year old version of me, he'd punch me in the head. 

What has driven me from my home? Why do I no longer feel safe under my own roof? 

My stalker. 

He sits there for hours at a time. I can feel his gaze, hot on the back of my neck. I turn around and I see him through the window. Staring. Right. At. Me. 

Scientists bang on about how intelligent squirrels are with all their problem-solving skills, but nobody seems to have noticed that they have evolved to the point where they can take part in Staring Contests. And win.

Though that might be more of a reflection on me than the squirrel. 

"You're just imagining things," the Better Half tells me. But she always says that when I'm intimidated by woodland creatures. Fluffy bastards. 

Of Snow, Squirrels And Sisters-In-Law

I’m currently enjoying a packet of Cajun Squirrel crisps. We’ve sampled all the Walkers flavours in the office and the winner is Duck in Hoi Sin sauce. This judgment is based purely on the fact that it’s the one flavour that actually tastes like the description on the packet. The unanimous decision is that chilli and chocolate crisps are morally wrong.

My sister-in-law has answered my cries and emailed me a picture of a snow willy. Quite frankly, it’s so anatomically correct and disturbing that I can’t bring myself to publish it. If you really must see it, you can email me. Whenever I close my eyes, there it is. I’ve opened Pandora’s box and it’s full of snow penii (is that the correct pluralisation of penis? I’ve only ever had to refer to one at a time. Usually to my doctor and often through a fog of shame)

Actually, it’s just occurred to me that I don’t think I’ve mentioned the whole snow willy thing anywhere else other than this blog, so if you’re reading this, Amy, hello!