Night visitor: Dennis A Clarke’s Thought for the week

‘You get used to this sort of thing in sheltered accommodation.’

For reasons too tedious to go into, I have recently found myself living in ‘sheltered accommodation’. Some time last month my sleep was disturbed by a fellow resident, who, for reasons best known to himself, took to wandering the hallways in the early hours, trying door handles, resulting in the occasional expletive and shouts of ‘What do you want? Go away!’

After several nights of this I was short of sleep, irritable, and tetchy, to say the least. One night, as I drifted into sweet slumber, I heard the familiar squeak of the door handle, which broke my reverie. A strange face appeared through the doorway. I staggered to my feet, groping for my walking stick, limped to the door and barked ‘What do you want? Do you know what time it is?’ My intruder looked puzzled, and in a hurry to continue his quest for door handles down the corridor. My primeval DNA erupted: ‘Wake me up at two o’clock in the morning again and I’ll wrap this walking stick round your head!’, I spluttered. ‘Hear, hear’ came a voice of approval from a distant room. I closed the door and returned to my bed – disturbed, dissatisfied and disappointed with my actions.

As I lay wide-eyed in the dark, a voice from somewhere within me said ‘What are you playing at? You’re a Quaker now, there has to be a better way.’ I wrestled with my conscience for what seemed like hours before finally submitting to the arms of Morpheus amid further cries of ‘Go away’ from my fellow disgruntled residents.

The following night, at three in the morning precisely, I awoke with a start. The light from my phone alerted me to an alien presence in my room. I snapped on the main light and there stood the nocturnal nuisance, staring at me with that same look of puzzlement as before. First, I felt the blood boiling in my ears as my thoughts turned to violence and mayhem. But as I sat up in readiness to let loose on this poor unfortunate pest, the voice inside me spoke once more, saying ‘What are you playing at? You’re a Quaker now, there has to be a better way.’ My demeanour softened and I said ‘You look confused. Where are you supposed to be just now?’ His puzzlement visibly escalated into agitation, so I led him back into the hallway, handing my ‘visitor’ over to a passing member of staff. ‘Can you take this man back to his room and have a word?’, I asked. He was led away and tranquillity returned, only broken by a nightmarish wail from somewhere far away: ‘I wish I was dead!’

You get used to this sort of thing in sheltered accommodation – who knows what life has dealt some of these poor souls. I felt relieved that I have been thus far spared that indignity, and that, for once, I had done ‘the right thing’. However temporarily, I had solved a problem, appropriately, peaceably, and, dare I say, in a Quakerly manner.

Thank you small voice. I must ‘tune in’ more often.

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