At just before 4am this morning I discovered that owning a nice new car doesn’t come without the odd hiccup. For reasons best known to itself, the car’s alarm decided to go off on a 30 second scream-fest, waking me and I suspect the neighbours too, at a time when I’m sure everyone would have prefered to be asleep.
By the time I had grasped that it was my alarm and struggled to the upright position, the smegger had shut up. In my foggy state of mind I slipped back into bed wondering why it had chosen to wake me at this unearthly hour. That’s when the paranoia started to work its magic.
Was there some scally prying out the CD player as I lay there taking the easy option?
Were the windows shattered to powder and the tyres cut to ribbons?
Did the above automobile assailant have designs on the house when he was done with the car?
With Fliss snoring away beside me like Darth Vader having an asthma attack in a gas mask, I decided I wasn’t going to get back to sleep in the near future anyway and like in all the best horror movies I set off in the dark to the ground floor to investigate.
It came as a reasonable relief, but not great surprize, that the car was completely unharmed and showed no evidence of why it had chosen to seek attention like a crying child in the middle of the night.
On a more positive note, does this show that my parental instincts are intact? I mean, I heard the cries for help while Fliss slept on. :o)
