A brief, noisy experiment in solitude.

Being home alone in paradise sounded like a dream. It wasn’t. While the family was off at a surf comp, chasing glory and sunburn, I was left to run the show: me, two dogs, and a cat who actually owned the house.

The dogs soon realised that walk times were “negotiable,” meaning never. They took turns glaring at me like unpaid interns. Basil, the cat, sat on the counter and watched with the cold detachment of someone who’s seen the CCTV footage.

Dinner devolved into a toast-and-baked-beans rotation, consumed straight from the pan to reduce admin. The toast went on top, sometimes buttered, sometimes not, depending on morale. It was oddly freeing, like camping in your own kitchen, if camping came with remorse.

To fill the silence, I played music at unhealthy volumes. Not good music, the kind you thought you loved in 1987, but looking back, you realise you were just sad at the time. The dogs howled briefly, then left the room side by side, in unison, as if walking onto Noah’s Ark. The cat relocated to the windowsill. I was undeterred.

By day three, I was talking to the appliances. The Jack Russell tilted his head whenever I spoke, which I took as a sign of encouragement. Basil rolled his eyes because he was the owner of the house.

The rest settled into a routine: strong coffee on an empty stomach, the odd leftover painkiller for no reason, and long nights lit by Netflix’s glow. I’d start a show and forget to finish it, or finish it and forget why I’d started. Sleep came in random bursts on the couch. A few KFC boxes may have been involved.

But solitude had its perks: no small talk, no school lunches, no towel avalanches. Just me, the two dogs, and the owner of the house, and a growing sense that civilisation is overrated.

They’re home now. The noise is back, the fridge is empty, and apparently, I can’t be trusted alone anymore.
Harsh, but fair.