When my parents go out in the evening they turn on a reading light upstairs and the toilet light downstairs. This is to deter burglars, show them that there’s someone home. Though presumably someone who was having a read and then became stricken with Bowelaggedon and spent the rest of the evening effectively held hostage by their own guts in the toilet. If that deters you as a burglar, i begin to suspect your heart’s not in the job anymore.

But i noticed this evening that they perform this elaborate charade when no one’s at home, or when ONLY I am left at home. I think that’s pretty telling. I don’t even count as a person. I’m clearly the sort of person a burglar would look at and think ‘i could rob around her, i doubt she’ll notice.’ I’m being babysat by the fake book-reading shitter. This must register as a low point for Nat. If in the grand scheme of my life, this doesn’t stand out as a worrying dip in quality, life will have been pretty bleurgh.

I complain but this is the way life is here, they think i’m an idiot, they pretend they’re infallible and i go along with the charade because it makes me feel safe. Like gluey microwaved supermarket croissants are always tastier to me than the home-baked ones from the bakers, because that’s how we always had them.

I try to ignore when they’re wrong, it’s healthier for me. Like the fact that mum polishes the hallway floor til it gleams and it this is very pleasing to the eye. It feels almost churlish to point out that it also makes it a death trap for her loved ones. It’s so slippery, if i step on it to head upstairs at any speed i will invariably skid into the cupboard under the stairs. This is not my favourite place, we keep the potatoes in there and i don’t like potatoes, the anaemic little roots creep me out and the genius that decided to christen them ‘eyes’ didn’t help. I sleepwalked into this cupboard once and woke up with my hand in a vase.

I better go, Dad will be home soon and i have an argument i had to discontinue last night due to illness. He has found some nice wine in Asda at a cheap price (and im honestly not allowed to tell you which one as he’s paranoid that stocks will run out so we don;t speak of it in front of guests). He has 15 bottles of this wine, so whenever i peeked in, looking for a tasty tipple, i would considerately take the wine that he had most of. This was discovered last week and sulking ensued. No one seemed to appreciate the thought and kindness that went into my decision, he’s acted like a squirrel whose winter nuts have been nicked. Last night he said ‘you can;t have a glass of wine, there’s only nice stuff in the house, nothing cheap enough to be given to you.’ I’m not a shaved bear masquerading as a human woman! I am actually quite sophisticated sometimes. I know more about cheese than they give me credit for, and i will protest this until they admit im right.

I won’t drag you into it – the ‘I know more about cheese than you’ll ever give me credit for’ argument is a vintage family bicker and one that will never be resolved. Even if I won Queen Cheese of the Year at the annual cheese show in Cheddar they would take my cracker crown off me and tell me i smelt of milk.