Paranoia in the wee small hours

Press, 25 January 1988, Page 12

Paranoia in the wee small hours

Wilsons Week...

It was four o’clock in the morning. The little glowing red digits on the bedside clock said so. I wanted to kill that clock, one digit at a time.

Every 60 seconds the clock winked up another reminder that I, the baying mongrel across the road and a randy tomcat somewhere down the street were the only creatures awake.

I was feeling the legacy of too many cups of coffee. Old Owl Eyes, desperate for sleep, was hyped up and tensed, waiting for every creak and bump in the house.

It is a fact of human nature that we are at our most irrational in the wee hours of the morning, and if alone in the house we can become positively paranoic.

I was alone in the house. In the wee hours of the morning. A creaking door at 6 p.m. is regarded as no more than a door with hinges needing oil. The same creak from the same door at 4 a.m. means only one thing — a big hairy burglar.

This is what the irrational one thought, as he heard the door, go squeak. And he fumed that the Army’s Ready

Reaction Force, the S.A.S. and the Scorpion tank squadron were never around when you need them.

The family was out of town, visiting friends. The only thing between Raffles the Thief and the family jewels was a terrified caffeine sodden, myopic insomniac. What was that? Movement, yes. Definite movement across the back room. Two giant saucer eyes tried to focus past the 4.18 on the clock, straining to define a shape in the gloom.

Cree-ee-ee-k! went the door to the hallway.

That’s it. There’s nothing in the mortgage conditions about danger money. I’m off out the window.

Unfortunately, there was no time. ~ Squeak went the bedroom door. I froze. Rambo would have levelled his M6O machine-gun and taken out the door and whatever was on the other side of it.

All I had was a hairbrush, a pair of spectacles and a G.I. Joe soldier that one of the children had left behind. That was it! Let the ' intruder think I had a platoon of crack soldiers waiting here for him.

“Okay, men. Place the mortars by the wardrobe. Sergeant. Get that machine-gun dug in by the bookcase. Remember, take no prisoners!” It sounded even better with an American accent. The bedroom door opened. Those mere words cannot convey the emotion of the moment. At 4.20 a.m., the bedroom door opened when I should have been the only creature in the house. I thought, if I live through this I’ll never watch another Alfred Hitchcock movie again. "Miaow!” wailed the cat. “You! You great (heavily censored) fleabag!” I thundered, leaping from bed, grabbing a book to hurl, realising it was a science fiction one and knowing

Sally would kill me if I damaged it.

In the melee the cat turned and fled up the hall. But “Scott of the Antarctic” got there first. Scott’s polar journals made a satisfying thump as they caught the cat by the lounge door. Peace now, perhaps sleep. Yes, deep, restful sleep. Goodnight clock that reads 4.30 a.m. Sleep. In the distance, on the pathway, thwack! Then another thwack on the pathway next door, the type of noise only a home delivered newspaper can make. Hmmn. The paper’s here. Read it in the morning. This is the morning. Wonder what the lead story is today? The bedroom clock said 5 a.m. as I happily sat there, injecting another dose of caffeine, reading the paper, every light in the house switched on. The back door creaked. I thought, “Must oil that hinge sometime.” —DAVE WILSON