Paranoia

I smoke my first cigarette at 9 pm, as usual, I slept on the sofa once I'd finished it, jsut to wake up ten minutes later to the buzz of my flat. I thought I was dreaming. On the second buzz, I thought there was something wrong. Then I heard knocking on my door. It was Ken, my landlord, with a woman in grey coat and boots by his side. 'Sorry Khaled,' Ken said, 'I tried to speak to you on the phone but your phone was switched off.' He went on, 'do you mind the lady see the flat.' I didn't mind although the flat itself was a shame. I threw things to the floor when I was looking for my wallet yesterday. The woman who would pay 25 pounds more than me and take the flat promised she wouldn't look at my personal stuff. Actually I had nothing to be keen on hiding.

They started with the open plan lounge and kitchen. The main light in the bed room wasn't working. I switched the bedside lamp on. Half of my cloths was on the airer in that room, plus a mountain bike and a folding one. I've got another hybrid bike that I store in the garage of my ex. I sat down on the arm of the sofa until they finished. That's one of the things I hate the most in moving flats - having people popping up any time to view it. It's like being inspected by trainee doctors. Even when I was one before I switched to journalism I hated inspecting patients. It's like adding unnecessary pain to their agony. Besides, I don't like people. I really fear strangers. My ex used to say that I was somewhere within the autistic spectrum. Where? That's the question I keep asking my self. I don't argue the fact but need to know where. I even hate talking to companies on the phone. When I say hate I mean it. I do hate, get anxious, and keep postpone it. It's not the same when I do journalism. Maybe it relates to the nature of relationship. Being investigated, however minimally, is horrible. It turns me agressive, waiting behind a wall for the right moment to attack before someone attacks me.