Ever Imagined You’re a Doorbell? Nope? Just me?

 

Sometimes my mind wanders a bit. Okay, so truthfully that should read ‘my mind wanders a lot, all the time’. I have always been able to imagine personalities, families or histories and stories for people I don’t know. Someone opposite me on a train, walking past my garden gate, another dog walker, all innocently grazing my life with the barest of contact but within seconds I’ve given them a name, colourful history and decided that they are in fact on their way to a very dangerous reunion with a jilted lover or that their dog is really an alien.

I think that’s why I love airports so much. It’s like the unofficial meeting place for PAWP. People Addicted to Watching People. See, right there. Now I’ve created an imaginary society, with badges and a secret handshake and everything.

To get back to my title, I can make up stories for anything. I often do. Completely miscellaneous and inanimate objects. I like to give them feelings, back stories and often a temper (some psychologist somewhere will have something to say about that no doubt.) I often find myself saying things to the kids at school like “Don’t do that to your chair, he doesn’t like it when you swing. He’s got a bad back.” Or maybe “Take that pen out your mouth, in Pendonia marking a pen with your teeth means you are mated for life. Think about it carefully.”

Now, apart from making the kids think I’m a total nutter, it also catches them a little off guard. They usually stop whatever small misdemeanour they had begun to engage with just from the power of sheer surprise. And I like doing it. I always have.

Tell me if anyone else does this, as a little girl I loved cuddly toys. Particularly, TY Beanie Babies and I have a rather generous collection that now live in my daughter’s room (yes, I know apparently some of them are worth a fortune but it’s just not true. Otherwise I’d be blogging to you from Mauritius while my permanently employed Butler in the Buff served me Blackcurrant Affair cocktails.) When choosing said beanies, I would look at their faces. Their wee expressions. Some looked angry cause they’d sewn the eyes too close together, some had their noses put on squint, others had a jaunty-angled smile probably due to the small Vietnamese lady stitching needing a break. Now, I tried hard to find the best-looking beanies; the perkiest ears, most symmetrical face and best lying pattern. However, I always ended up with the beanie I’d picked up first. Why, you ask?

Simple. Guilt.

I felt guilty that I had picked that toy up and wouldn’t take it home. Guilty that I’d gotten their wee hopes up, their dreams of finally finding a home and owner who’d love, cherish and play with them, ripped away in an instant due to a slightly lopsided grin.

This was more guilt than my tender little heart could bear.

So go ahead, look through my collection of poorly sewn, imperfect little monsters with whiskers and stitching askew. My overly empathetic little heart gave me the wild imagination I have today and I am grateful for it. I have included a little snippet below from my book where the main character, Emma, has a date arrive at the door.

Because, let’s face it, sometimes you have to imagine you’re a doorbell.

xo

 

The ding my bell makes has to be the same as always, but for some reason, tonight it sounds different. Pingier, as though even the door is excited. I imagine, if I were the doorbell, it would be rather exhilarating having some tall, dark, chunk of hunk pressing his manicured finger up against me. Be a pleasant change from the sweaty index of Gerry the Yodel delivery man, smashing into me at speed but still managing a good transference of germs collected from his latest bathroom trip, where he couldn’t be bothered to rinse those infection riddled digits.

Why the fuck am I imagining I’m the door bell?