A wake-up call.

Picture this:

You are asleep. It is freezing in the bedroom (because the house still maintains it's a freezer [not an igloo, 'cos they tend to be fairly warm on the inside, says my Greenlandic pal anyways] and has in fact started to make ice in the downstairs toilet, and is actively fighting any and all attempts of heating), but you are comfortably snuggled under the best duvet ever. One of them down ones. And you are nice and warm under there.

You have set the alarm for 7AM though, because there was something you had to do in the morning...

The Hubby even called you at the indecent hour of 6AM to remind you about it, but you were in a state where your brain automatically gave a few template answers, such as "I love you too," and "I miss you too," before going back to dreaming about...

Well, that thing you were dreaming about.

There was no way in hell, or any other imaginary realm for that matter, that you were actually going to get up at 7AM, hop in the shower, and cheerfully start your day. No way in hell. Not after the weird IM conversation you had with your crazy siamese sister on Twitter until 1AM. Which left your dreams confusing, until...

Well, that thing you were dreaming about.

And why would you get up anyways? Who says you have to?

So you repeatedly hit snooze on the cell phone that is trying to rouse you. You wonder why anyone anywhere ever gets up on a morning like this. If they don't absolutely have to, that is.

And then you hear it.

What is that noise? And is that ...whistling?

You turn around underneath the duvet to face the balcony doors and windows. because that is obviously where the sounds are coming from. You focus your eyes to the crack in the curtains, but instead of your usual view of the blue sky and the neighbors' roof, your eyes find something unexpected.

A bald head.

And it's smiling at you. A big, friendly smile.

The head begins to bob and talk to you in what you think is Afrikaans, but at this hour it could just as well be Zulu. You're still not going to get a word.

You try refocusing your eyes. Maybe the talking head is some sort of a hallucination? You quickly think of swearing off wine, but decide to investigate first. No reason to jump to conclusions, is there? Not with wine anyways.

As your thoughts circle around wine you realize you're naked underneath the covers. That should not come as a big surprise, because that is the way you wake up every single morning, in your own house.

But it does.

You look at the bobbing head again. It is not going away, and the words Johannesburg Crime Statistic flash in your mind.

But there's that sound that reminds you of something that happened not so long ago.

What was it?

Something happened in Zambia?

And then it hits you.

Suddenly you are reminded of that morning in Zambia in the hotel room when you woke up to someone sanding down the room door. That is what that weird sound is. The bobbing head is sanding down the frames of your balcony doors and windows.

That's why you left the garden gate open yesterday night. So that the painters could get in.

You smile at the bobbing head in understanding and yell "Morning!"

However, you are still naked underneath the covers.

Now, where did you put that bathrobe? Your faithful bathrobe that you wear every. single. day. Except for when it's far too cold to hang out in a bathrobe and regular clothes are needed.

That's when the bathrobe hangs on the door in the closet. On the other side of the bedroom.

And. Oh wait. Now you really have to pee. Urgently.

You smile again at the bobbing head as you squeeze your thighs together and glance around for something within easy reach that you could use to cover your pasty flab Rubenesque features.

You unearth a swimming suit, that will certainly not do and you storing one on the floor just borders on weird, Hubby's leftover dirty polo-shirt, a pillowcase, and a shirt. "This should work," you think to boost your confidence.

You inch towards the end of the bed away from the windows and towards the shortest route for the safety of the walk-in closet and the safe haven of the bathroom. You soon realize you were correct in assuming that there was no way you could have ever wrapped yourself in the duvet and made it to the bathroom without flashing the bobbing head.

Who is either really dumb and doesn't realize you are naked, or really smart and waiting for you to flash some boob by accident.

You don't feel in the position to yell at him for either option.

You try to inconspicuously slip on the shirt and cover your behind with the polo-shirt, while also setting up the duvet as a kind of a barrier between the windows and your dash behind the corner. You don't quite succeed. But you maintain no sensitive areas have received exposure.

The bobbing head smiles. And was that a fokken wink you saw?

But you can't be sure.

"Dirty old man," you think as you dash thanking hubby for being the size of a proper viking and wearing things that come in XXL, and will thus cover even your behind.

"Having the chance to pee in the privacy of your own bathroom first thing in the morning is an unappreciated joy," you muse.

You put some clothes on, close the crack in the curtains, and go downstairs for some coffee, to find the bobbing head and three of his buddies waiting on the downstairs patio for you to make them some tea.

"It's cold, madam," they all say.