I’ve had to leave the house. I’m sat in a coffee shop, sketching this post out in my Moleskine notebook while I sip a latte. I sometimes think that if I met the 18 year old version of me, he’d punch me in the head.
What has driven me from my home? Why do I no longer feel safe under my own roof?
My stalker.
He sits there for hours at a time. I can feel his gaze, hot on the back of my neck. I turn around and I see him through the window. Staring. Right. At. Me.
Scientists bang on about how intelligent squirrels are with all their problem-solving skills, but nobody seems to have noticed that they have evolved to the point where they can take part in Staring Contests. And win.
Though that might be more of a reflection on me than the squirrel.
“You’re just imagining things,” the Better Half tells me. But she always says that when I’m intimidated by woodland creatures. Fluffy bastards.
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