Gaslight Moments

It's late when my partner arrives home. As usual our first conversation is about Daddy Shortlegs - is the house safe, flooded, burned? We've already had the repeat of yesterday's shower conversation along with 'he who shall not be calmed' popping in and out of his room whenever the TV went off this afternoon. Talking calmly through his rant we explain that 'We have an electrician working on the kitchen, you’ve been bumping into him all day. Perhaps you could listen to some music instead'. We proffer the personal CD player bought as a present by his old friends - he's never used it! But no, he's missing JAG or Stargate SGI or some other such crap to which he has become addicted in second childhood - what else can explain watching the FX channel?

Ten minutes later and 'Why has my TV has gone off...' As we reset the cable box for the third time we face a new saga of the missing remote control (it apparently hides from him - I may join it). It is within reach on his bed but when we say 'here it is' we are countered with furious disbelief. 'Well how did it get there? I didn’t put it there.' No one else was in the room so he obviously did put it there.

In the search he moves his bed away from the wall and we discover the hiding place of the kitchen towels, missing in action for the past fortnight since he decided to wash them. We have looked in the washing machine, drier, fridge? food cupboards, dining room and shower but of course tucked down the side of his bed was not on the list. As we start folding the towels he looks on in disbelief and says 'I didn’t put them there.'

I almost feel guilty - he makes me feel like the murderous Anton Walbrook in Gaslight but there is no way he looks like Diana Wynyard not even in the dim light of his bedroom with its ever-drawn curtains. The nearest he could manage is a passable Danny DeVito doing Miss Haversham. I'd watch that if someone offered me popcorn.