A little while ago, James made us watch The Woman in Black. He said he chose it because he thought it would be amusing to watch Harry Potter in a grown up role - and, indeed, it's a little difficult to buy the boy wizard as a bereaved 30-year-old (although, in one scene, it did look as though he had a scar on his forehead - this time, for some uncreditable reason, the MasterChef symbol).
If you haven't watched the film, it's heavy on the melodrama; a ghost story complete with chairs that rock even though there is no one sitting on them, toy monkeys clanging cymbals and vacant eyed girls in Victorian dress. In a roundabout way, it's about a haunted house, with all the occult action taking place in the nursery. A sublime choice for someone who has to get up to breastfeed during the night, especially someone whose imagination is as mild and orderly as Charlie Sheen.
I first started taking fright in my house when I saw the cellar. It's deep enough for me to stand upright, and runs the full length of the house. It was my sister who made me think of it as something more sinister than an awesome place to store wine: "What if thieves hide in here?" she asked. I now realise that if someone is prepared to hunker down somewhere dark and dank for hours, hack their way through wooden floors, then drag away our TV without waking us, they probably deserve their loot.
However, her comment did get me thinking, not so much about thieves as ghosts: what if there is a resident phantom lurking down below? Many's the time I've waited for James to come home, terrified that said spectre might float through the floorboards.
I'm equally scared of our bathroom; not only because it has a full length mirror in the shower (a terrifying sight), but because it has glass doors leading outside, meaning that anyone meandering past can see in. My particular fear about this room was again fuelled by a film, this time one starring Jonathan Rhys Meyer as a possessed and demonic meanie. Since watching it, I have been unable to stop imagining Jonathan's icy blues staring at me while I'm on the loo, to the point where I feel really shy every time I wee and try make it all happen as quickly as possible. I am still a little scared that such a scenario should transpire, although I realise that if it did, it really is more likely to be a criminal peeking in, and that would just be embarrassing. Should this happen, I do hope that I really am just making a wee, and I dread the policeman asking me what I was doing at the time of the break-in.
But I digress. Now that we have Leya, the baby monitor has created all manner of food for my phobias. I lie there at night, imagining that I can hear someone say "Hello" over the airwaves. It's doubtful that any intruder - real or otherwise - would start their intrusion with a courteous greeting, but there you go.
The reality, though, is that there is something very scary lurking in the nursery at night - and it's Leya herself. Anyone who has walked into a baby's room at 3am, only to be greeted by a giant toothless grin, will know what I am talking about. These are times when no amount of Grand Old Duke of York helps. Leya wants to PLAY. Nor is it possible to bounce her to sleep on the gym ball - I've tried, only but found its impossible to balance with one's eyes shut. I've tried feeding her without making eye contact, but have discovered that she has an uncommonly compelling stare. I begin to feel quite juvenile and churlish, like a child ignoring her best friend for no good reason.
That's the thing: Leya just looks so delighted to see me. And the truth is that, if my eyes weren't gummed shut by sleep, I would be delighted to see her, too. But there we sit, in a tortured stand-off, her happily gurgling, me groaning and yawning, until 5am.
And then, suddenly, the tide turns. Her excitement at seeing me turns, in a second, to rage. Her tiny face turns puce and she bellows, her fury bordering on indignation, for all the world as if I am the one who insisted on a midnight rendezvous. Now it's her that's exhausted and me that's oulling out all the stop to mollify until, finally, she slips back into slumber, and I'm able to use the last reserves of my energy to leopard crawl back into bed.
All of which makes me think: surely no encounter with a ghost could be quite as wearisome
If you haven't watched the film, it's heavy on the melodrama; a ghost story complete with chairs that rock even though there is no one sitting on them, toy monkeys clanging cymbals and vacant eyed girls in Victorian dress. In a roundabout way, it's about a haunted house, with all the occult action taking place in the nursery. A sublime choice for someone who has to get up to breastfeed during the night, especially someone whose imagination is as mild and orderly as Charlie Sheen.
I first started taking fright in my house when I saw the cellar. It's deep enough for me to stand upright, and runs the full length of the house. It was my sister who made me think of it as something more sinister than an awesome place to store wine: "What if thieves hide in here?" she asked. I now realise that if someone is prepared to hunker down somewhere dark and dank for hours, hack their way through wooden floors, then drag away our TV without waking us, they probably deserve their loot.
However, her comment did get me thinking, not so much about thieves as ghosts: what if there is a resident phantom lurking down below? Many's the time I've waited for James to come home, terrified that said spectre might float through the floorboards.
I'm equally scared of our bathroom; not only because it has a full length mirror in the shower (a terrifying sight), but because it has glass doors leading outside, meaning that anyone meandering past can see in. My particular fear about this room was again fuelled by a film, this time one starring Jonathan Rhys Meyer as a possessed and demonic meanie. Since watching it, I have been unable to stop imagining Jonathan's icy blues staring at me while I'm on the loo, to the point where I feel really shy every time I wee and try make it all happen as quickly as possible. I am still a little scared that such a scenario should transpire, although I realise that if it did, it really is more likely to be a criminal peeking in, and that would just be embarrassing. Should this happen, I do hope that I really am just making a wee, and I dread the policeman asking me what I was doing at the time of the break-in.
But I digress. Now that we have Leya, the baby monitor has created all manner of food for my phobias. I lie there at night, imagining that I can hear someone say "Hello" over the airwaves. It's doubtful that any intruder - real or otherwise - would start their intrusion with a courteous greeting, but there you go.
The reality, though, is that there is something very scary lurking in the nursery at night - and it's Leya herself. Anyone who has walked into a baby's room at 3am, only to be greeted by a giant toothless grin, will know what I am talking about. These are times when no amount of Grand Old Duke of York helps. Leya wants to PLAY. Nor is it possible to bounce her to sleep on the gym ball - I've tried, only but found its impossible to balance with one's eyes shut. I've tried feeding her without making eye contact, but have discovered that she has an uncommonly compelling stare. I begin to feel quite juvenile and churlish, like a child ignoring her best friend for no good reason.
That's the thing: Leya just looks so delighted to see me. And the truth is that, if my eyes weren't gummed shut by sleep, I would be delighted to see her, too. But there we sit, in a tortured stand-off, her happily gurgling, me groaning and yawning, until 5am.
And then, suddenly, the tide turns. Her excitement at seeing me turns, in a second, to rage. Her tiny face turns puce and she bellows, her fury bordering on indignation, for all the world as if I am the one who insisted on a midnight rendezvous. Now it's her that's exhausted and me that's oulling out all the stop to mollify until, finally, she slips back into slumber, and I'm able to use the last reserves of my energy to leopard crawl back into bed.
All of which makes me think: surely no encounter with a ghost could be quite as wearisome
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