Obsession

High up in the azure skies, a prairie falcon unfurls its magnificent wings and glides majestically over the vast plains of South Dakota. In the distance, on the open ground, a sudden flash of movement catches its sharp eye: a pocket gopher has just emerged from its burrow after a mid-afternoon siesta and is now dozily searching for the right location for a spot of al fresco nut nibbling.

A moment is all it takes to turn this graceful bird into a ruthless killing machine. Its wings tucked firmly alongside its now taut body, the prairie falcon commences the velocitous descent that will soon spell the end of one creature's life and the beginning of today's luncheon hour for this skilled hunter.

Only this wildlife scene is not being played out on the sun-drenched plains of South Dakota, but rather in the lounge of our cosy flat in Putney, South-West London. I am the prairie falcon and the poor unsuspecting pocket gopher is an empty glass that my flatmate Phil has just placed on the footstool to my right. It is Thursday night and we are watching a movie, but I have lost all interest in the television screen. I have eyes for the glass and nothing else. I try to resist, but it is stronger than me, so very strong. Giving in to the urge, as I knew I would, I stand up, swoop triumphantly and walk into the kitchen clutching the glass in my talons. Once deposited in the dishwasher, my inner peace is restored and I return to resume watching the movie.

At the grand old age of 34, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have developed an acutely domestic case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have long considered myself to be quirky, eccentric and even downright odd, but OCD is the only way to describe the hidden force that drives me to randomly wipe the crumbs from the breadboard, rearrange the contents of our refrigerator* and double check that I have not mistakenly mixed my navy and black socks.

I may have only recently diagnosed myself as a new-born nutcase, but the signs were always there, even in the chaos and disorder of my university years. From the steam-iron shaped burn marks on the synthetic carpet in the lounge to the mould growing on 54% of all kitchen surfaces, our household of seven second-year male slackers was every bit the archetypal student fleapit. But in my room, high above the savage hordes of e.coli bacteria doing battle over the congealed kebab encrusted on my carpet, there, on a bookshelf covered in enough dust to warrant dune appellation, rested a collection of over 600 CDs in precise alphabetical AND chronological order.

As with documenting most emotional or mental deficiencies, recording this here madness onto my humble blog has enabled me to wrestle and defeat one of my most demonic obsessions. Emboldened by the release these writings are giving my soul, I have nipped downstairs in between paragraphs to trim the frayed ends of the rogue doormat that has recently come to threaten my very sanity. Where once inside my head there screeched the sound of yellow ingrowing toenails scraping down a blackboard, there now only echoes the calming sounds of beluga whales and bottlenose dolphins. Aaaahhh...

Screeching nails

The sound of whales

How long until I keep a diary listing sell-by dates for all the food contained in our refrigerator? When will I set my alarm for 23:59 in order to ensure my flatmate's shrivelled cauliflower does not overextend its intended lifespan by even one second? Very soon, my friends, very soon.

With these painfully irritating manic obsessive tendencies only likely to be exacerbated by the cruel sands of time, and with my repertoire of lame jokes already surpassing my father's worst gags, I can only imagine what a cheerful and well balanced chappie I will have become by the ripe old age of 75, and what excellent company I will be.

Good luck Sarah...

* Top Shelf - dairy, sauces & condiments / Middle Shelf - meats & ready meals / Bottom Shelf - fresh produce & alcohol