That time you almost caught a thief

Dear Reader,

My mum and dad have come to spend late summer with us, and it’s been…surprisingly interesting. The thing is, when you live with your parents for an extended period of time after a few years of living by yourself, you notice some changes. The most obvious one is their sorted sleeping schedule. The other one is their inner peace, which seems suspiciously linked to my physical absence in their daily lives, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

All my and my siblings friends “heart” my parents. As one of them so eloquently puts it, “When I met you, I never imagined your parents would be so nice.” . Of course I’m nice enough (practically perfect), he’s just greedy for affection, approval and homemade food.

If you follow our blog, you know that we recently came back from a self -planned tour with the dad and the mum. This story takes place in Paris, just after we came back from Champagne. We had booked an Airbnb as usual, and it was really warm, so we had kept the windows open. All was well and good till I heard a window creak, and a shuffling noise. It seemed to originate from my parents room.

Dad walking through a Champagne vineyard

Dad exploring a Moet & Chandon vineyard in Champagne

Ever since we were robbed last year I have become an alert sleeper, so these noises set off all sorts of alarms in my half-asleep head. Within milliseconds I found myself bolt upright in my bed, clutching my pillow, my heart pounding like there was no tomorrow.
Unexpectedly flooded with adrenaline, I suddenly gained enough confidence to confront the invader. I carefully got off our bed, still clutching the pillow because, obviously, one does not simply walk into a battle without a weapon. As I tiptoed towards the source of the noise, I could make out the silhouette of a man, shuffling through my parents’ open suitcase. He was barely visible by the slivers of streetlight filtering through the closed blinds.

Just when I was about to run towards the thief with a war cry and a pillow, I recognised my father.

– Umm…baba? WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT 3AM?
– Oh! You’re up? I was just closing the windows, can’t sleep with all the creaking sounds. And then I though I should move the suitcase out of the way…

My heart was still pounding, but the adrenaline was wearing off. I slowly began to realise I was about to hit, and possibly injure, my own father.

– Sweetheart, why are you holding a pillow? Do you want to sleep in our room?

-Go to sleep, dad.

When I got back to my bed, I suddenly realised that, a) out of everything I could have chosen as a weapon, I’d grabbed a pillow and b) we were on the 5th floor of a high-rise.

When I recounted my frankly traumatic experience the next morning, my parents and that traitor Dalek laughed their asses off. My mum laughed the hardest – the possibility of her daughter repeatedly hitting her loving husband with a pillow must have brought back some dark memories of when the daughter was a toddler. Not that the toddler enjoyed hitting people with pillows, she was probably just hangry.

Till date, I have no idea why I though we were being robbed, and why pillows are my weapon of choice. And what exactly did I plan to do, start a pajama pillow fight with Prince of Persia?! As I ruminate the wondrous thinking patterns of my sleep-addled brain, I wish you a sleep schedule like my parents.

Wisdom and more wisdom,

A pillow-wielding Yoda (possibly doomed in the event of a zombie apocalypse)

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