Exactly a week ago I was standing outside and watching the flames which had already destroyed part of the building in which I live, lick ever closer to my home. It turned out well, and I was - am - one of the lucky ones who still have a home to come to. I am well aware of how lucky I am, how narrow the escape was, how I should be counting my blessings right now.
But I'm still scared of leaving the house because I'm convinced I will come back to ashes and rubble. A had to physically prise my darling little cat out of my arms on Wednesday and lead me out of the flat so that I would go to work, where I spent all day fretting. On Thursday I begged and bribed my mother to go round and check on things, and she humoured me enough to do so (she lives close to an hour's drive away), on Friday A works from home so I was less of a nut-job, but I haven't left the house this entire weekend.
Last Sunday when we were finally allowed back home, I threw a few things into a bag "just in case". I haven't unpacked it yet, in fact I've been adding things to it all week and it lives on the spare bed next to the pet carrier. I unplug everything but the fridge if it isn't in use and I am convinced that I smell smoke at least 5 times a day, although I manage to keep this to myself.
Worst of all, though, my heart now beats faster whenever I hear a siren until I hear it fade into the distance. I work in a hospital, for crying out loud. I swear I spent most of last week tachycardic.
