Yesterday afternoon, by majority vote, Kath, Richard and I, went to see The Conjuring.

Now when I say “majority vote” please let it be hereby known, that I was not in that majority.  Horror films are not fun, and just as I can’t see the point of scaring myself witless on a fairground ride, nor do I find horror films any kind of entertaining and tend to sit scrunched up, with my heart banging in my ears, shoving an enormous hot dog down my throat and praying for mercy from the kind of films that specialize in making me jump out of my skin, and at one point yesterday, giving me such a fright that I walloped poor Kath on the leg! Oh yes: I am one of those– make me jump and I am very likely to whack you in fright while channeling Maria and singing “These are a “Few of My Favorite Things ” under my terrified breath …

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, Brown paper packages tied up with strings, Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels, Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles, Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, these are a few of my favorite things…

Truth is I don’t even know what a schnitzel with noodles is, but I’m pretty sure that I’d like it better than spooky dolls, apparitions swinging from trees, and poor little girls in seventies polyester nighties frightened completely out of their wits. Yep I’ll take schnitzel any day over that. For The Conjuring was the worst kind of horror. It felt real.

There was very little blood and guts and an awful lot of chills and jumps and heart attacks and worst of all, it was based on a true story and it was a house that was harboring the malevolent force frightening the Perron family senseless.

Ugh. I hate that. I hate the very idea that four walls can harbor atmosphere and ugliness. The idea that our homes, places of sanctuary and necessary safety can resent our presence and that what should be gone is still there. Most of me (the sensible, rational me) knows it can’t be real and yet some of me thinks that if arguments can linger in a room, then much worse can write itself all over the walls in invisible ink, haunting us, resenting us and driving us slowly crazy…

And this is such a common theme in modern day horror isn’t it? Every film I am forced to watch by Kath and Rich seems to involve a naughty house and it just doesn’t sit well with me, when my entire ethos is based upon the notion that when we hug our house, it will always, always hug us back, that the walls of our homes stand between us and the malevolence all too common on the streets beyond our garden gates and it is only inside them, that we can find true refuge. 

So there I sat, yesterday afternoon, concentrating on admiring the decor in the house causing all the trouble (the youngest child’s bedroom has the most wonderful wallpaper!) while sneaking peeks either side of me at Kath on my right and Rich on my left, both of them sitting with their heads in their hands, peeking at the horror on the big screen in front of us and apparently enjoying it!

We as a people are rather around the bend aren’t we? What  is there to enjoy about the kind of entertainment that has you doubting your safety in your own house?? Making every squeak of the old beams in the loft of this 160 year old house seem menacing? What, I ask you? What??

Phew. Rant over. Please don’t make me go see anymore of this nonsense now will you? Darn it people, mine is the kind of sensitive soul mean old witches could take advantage of in a spooky heartbeat!