I’ve always been told that I have an overactive imagination. Generally it’s a great thing. It helps with writing stories, stopping boredom and just generally keeping me happy and entertained. That was until my partner started working away.

Now I’m alone for a week at a time. And mostly it’s fine. I get more done. And I feel safe. I have a great street with sweetly nosy neighbours. And two dogs that are uber protective. But that doesn’t stop my crazy brain most of the time. Especially when I watch a few of my favourite crime shows. I tend to imagine some very wacked out, cool shit.

Mostly I compensate for the fact. I avoid crime shows and double check all locks. But this week, the day before my partner left, I started reading Monday Mourning by Kathy Reichs. Dumb idea. Now I have the option of wither either reading the book and not sleeping for the next few days. Or waiting until he comes home at which point I have a week to read the whole damn thing.

Stupid imagination.