Scaring myself silly

I’ve been reading crime novels of late. And it’s a really bad idea. Combined with all the things I now know are possible after watching three seasons of Fringe, my mind can sometimes go a little crazy.

Take the other night when I was home alone and accidentally¬†knocked Ian’s tooth brush off the bench. It started to move along the floor and make seriously weird sounds. Naturally this led to me flying into our bedroom and dive bombing under the covers.

I was quite sure that the tooth brush was giving me a heads up that Zombies were about to take over the earth or that people from an alternate universe were going to quarantine us in Amber.

I lay in bed panicking, wishing I had my phone with me,¬†absolutely¬†willing Ian to come home with all of my mind, hoping that five years of marriage had created some kind of telepathy that we just hadn’t tapped into yet.

When I finally heard his key in the lock I almost cried with joy! I heard him walk towards our room, pausing outside the bathroom door to no doubt also be confronted with the possessed toothbrush.

As the door of our bedroom flew open, I jumped out of bed to quickly grab him, pull him under the covers and hopefully save his life. But he just looked at me confused.

‘Why the hell is my electric toothbrush on the floor?’ he asked. ‘With all that vibrating, the battery’s surely going to run out’.

Hmm. Overthinker, much?