Stupid, maybe, but true.
I suspect there’s some sort of control room in the deep recesses of the lump of grey goo I occasionally use for thinking which could present reasons to justify why it happens, but sometimes I scare myself.
Perhaps in that control room a very small man with a moustache is supervising the operation of my body. A sub-lackey (maybe concerned with the observation and maintenance of minor tissues) might point out that, not being a daredevil, regular bungee jumper, hang-glider or Asda shopping trolley destruction derby enthusiast, my average day to day contains very little to get me going. It is more than likely that my adrenal glands look a little rusty around the edges.
At this point the tiny man with a moustache will order the dark and impish controlmen of my subconscious to wheel out the heebie-jeebies. That way the adrenalin production centres of the body can get an airing, so to speak, without all that messing around with hang-gliders, shopping trolleys, elastic ropes and so on, where there is the real possibility of the glands getting an airing through physically leaving the body.
It can be a thought out of nowhere, but the real speciality, in this (mostly) rational atheistic boy, is to wait until I’m here, at home on the Isle of Wight, in this section of a big old converted Victorian school and awake, thirsty, at 3am, in the dark. At the moment I leave my room for the bathroom, running my hand along the still darkened corridor wall to avoid the painfully bright lights, the man with a moustache hands a message to my mostly still sleeping front brain, consisting of the words ‘ooooh, this would be just the time to see a ghost’.
At which point I wake up, faster and with more of a paranoiac edge than any Monday morning could ever hope to achieve. I get the water quickly and use all the lights I possibly can on the way back to bed. I know that I’m being completely irrational and stupid, and that there’s no reason to suggest that our house is haunted…er…beyond that mysterious trouble with the plumbing a few years back. I know that all rational scientific thought points to the nonexistence of supernatural entities…but maybe the ghosts don’t know that.
Silly. I said silly. I told you silly.
But I’ve lived in this old house since I was five, and at 3am my five year old fears are closer to the fore than my twenty-four year old rationalising.
Stupid, maybe, but true.