Look, I’m the first to admit that I’m a touch paranoid. I worry every cold will last for an eternity. I worry I’ve misread the parking sign and will return to my car only to find that piece of paper stuck to my windscreen which can mean one thing.
I worry that my five grey hairs are the beginning of the end. And – almost more than anything else – I worry I’ll come home from work to a burnt-out shell in place of my, once rather pleasant, apartment.
It's why I don't have scented candles... and it's no way to live.
Since I was a teenager I've struggled with my hair straightener. It's such a useful appliance and yet, it's probably my most hated.
The carpet of my former bedroom at my parents' house is marked with tell-tale Vs burned into the mint green shag.
Almost every morning I leave my house, lock the door, get half way down the laneway and think, hmmm, better just pop back and check the straightener's off.
My text conversations with my housemate are littered with fretful questions about it (among queries about our toilet paper stores).