30 September 2004
Something to add, then, to the list of Things Chaz Does In His Sleep. Itís not a comprehensive list - there are things we cannot know, by definition, because they pass unwitnessed and leave no evidence behind them - but already it includes Talking (frequently, intelligibly, even I am told intelligently), Walking (in hotels, naked - yikes! - and so necessarily locked out of my room and helpless; also in friendsí houses, naked again - double yikes! - and accosting them in their bedrooms, to such horrific effect that they flee to Tasmania) and Getting Dressed (phew!). Now we must add Taking A Bath. Is this weird, or what? I woke up about half-six this morning, nub of soap in my hand, in a cooling bath so full the water was slopping over the rim. In, of course, a friendís house (well, actually the house of two friends, but I donít know how to punctuate that; a friendsí house is all strange to look at, though Ďa house of friendsí is what it means). This might not have mattered, except that the overflow soaked through the floor and formed a puddle on a fine piece of furniture beneath. I swear, Iím never going to leave home again. My passport expires anyway at the end of this year; I shanít need another. Iím going to lurk in my weird house with my weird cat and just grow ever weirder, and no one need ever know how strange I am.
© Chaz Brenchley 2004
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.