Do you live in fear of dying in suspicious circumstances? Not so much because of death itself, but what crime scene investigators would find in your home?
It'd all start at your computer. Once they've bagged the hair from your shower plug and dusted doorknobs for 'partials', the cops always crack open your laptop to see what creepy stuff you've been Googling.
All I'll say of my own internet browsing history is there are cookies on my computer from perfectly legal, adult websites – which I'd still hate my mum to be told about. Then there's the artfully crude, anatomically impossible emails to up-themselves media types that are sitting in my Outlook draft folder unsent.
Possible suspects? Nah.
No need to discuss what the swabs from my laptop keyboard might also turn up.
Moving right along, my bed would keep a whole team of coppers, wearing pale blue latex gloves, occupied for half their shift. They'd bring in a botanist because of the exotic collection of grains and seeds scattered in my sheets.
"Ah, looks like we've got a bed-eater," would say the head of forensics.
I'm not big on plates. I thus opt for unprotected mastication in bed and because I like everything from a stodgy multi-grain to a hearty caraway-crusted black rye, a naked bottom can emerge from my sheets looking like a MasterChef mystery box challenge.
That gelatinous, off-white glob on the doona? Low-fat yoghurt. The fearful burgundy streak across one pillow? Mixed berries. The vapouring brown stain on the mattress? Scotch (but we've covered that in a previous post).
Meticulous buggers they are, Forensic Services would next move to my bathroom, where I'm guessing my toilet looks something like yours. When visitors are expected, my bowl is truly "super". On an off-week, however, the commode looks at home in a hospital for the criminally inaccurate.
Of course, those nosey coppers would then catalogue my medicine cabinet and find the herpes medication, the anti-depressants and the tube of French stretch mark cream left by my ex - which would sure puzzle them.
"Ah-ha!" another would exclaim from the hallway, having spotted smears of blood on the carpet ... until a canny dog-owning constable recognised the tell-tale patterns of a menstruating pooch.
The hall cupboard would eventually reveal a bizarre multi-speed-vibrating sex toy (with remote control) a PR firm sent me years ago. It's never been used (promise) except when I stuffed it into the back of a teddy to amuse my daughter as it moon-walked across the kitchen.
The recycling bin would also be illustrative, either filled to the brim with beers you drink with fruit, Irish whisky or Islay single malts - but at least I recycle my takeaway coffee cups, you judgmental bastards.
Of course, by then, they'd have located my mobile phone, and an eliminatory check of the last dialled numbers would solve the mystery of my passing.
I'd have been on hold to Telstra for 67 straight hours waiting to get my internet reconnected and died of shame I'd ever swapped plans.
Please don't take it personally if I do not reply to your email as they come in thick and fast depending on the topic. Please know, I appreciate you taking the time to write and comment and would offer mummy hugs to all.