Bibliophile

Like many normal people if, for some reason, I have strangers coming to my haus, and particularly if I'm not going to be at home, I like to whiz around and spruce the place up a bit - you know, to give the impression that, oh yes, I live like this all the time. [Often, a large part of this involves hiding all the Nutella jars I've yet to recycle.]

But I know you're with me. On the spruce up situ, if not the Nutella. Some of you are, like, sooo judgemental?



Wait. You are with me, aren't you?



Anyway. So today was one of those days when strange men would be trawling through my abode while I was being industrious at work. Or at the very least was occupying a seat in the office. Sheesh. Sticklers for detail. I was dashing from room to room making everything look mildly inhabitable when I realised that one thing I'd left out were some, well, look, motivational placards that Scarab had sweetly made for me. Like some of my friends, Scarab knows that I've been finding the going a bit tough of late and she took the time to take some pretty pink card and write inspirational buck-up messages on them to remind me while she was away on holiday that life is, indeed, good.

I thought about putting the placards away and then I decided against it because, bugger it, it's my haus and my life and who's going to notice anyway? Not the bunch of strangers walking around, kicking up dust, battling rapid-onset silicosis. Thus, the placards stayed up.

I got home tonight, chucked my bag on the dining table and wandered off in the general direction of a wine bottle. When I came back to grab my phone from my bag, this is what I noticed sitting next to it:


The Bible. Open at the 23rd Psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, etc. Which simultaneously reminds me of droning along with this at school assemblies with The Burp, Robert Plant, Scarab, Dr Zhivago, et al and of this song.

Someone has been in my haus and, upon seeing my motivational posters and recognising a troubled soul in crisis, fossicked in my bookshelf for the Bible and left it open for me. To comfort and soothe.

And, let's face it, shudder.

On the one hand this seems like a nice, decent thing to do. On the other hand, I'm waiting to hear the opening strains of 'Misty' waft down the corridor at any moment. I'm wavering at feeling touched by the concern shown for me by a faceless fellow human being, and the thought that right now that secret camera they've installed to monitor my progress is trained on me.

Note to self: to pick or not to pick?

I think I'm coming down on the side of the shudder. To the point of violent spasming. Huh. At least that'll give my secret watcher a decent floor show.