Just call me Norman...

I like to rock.

Not in the musical sense of the word. But in a big wooden chair. In the "old lady with a rug over her knees, wearing a badly fitting, frizzy ginger wig, and a lipstick moustache" type of rock.

Slowly, to and fro.  Endlessly, until I doze off or go dizzy.

I owned a tiny rocking chair as a tot.

I used to sit in it and rock backwards and forwards as fast as I could, like a loon, to make it walk across the bedroom floor.

The only reason I don't do that any more is that my rear end is now far too big to squeeze into the seat, so my beloved chair has been donated to someone considerably younger, smaller and more responsible.

And I've upgraded to Rocking Chair II - The Revenge....

Recently, I found a proper adult sized, fiddle-back, beech rocking chair in the same antiques centre which spawned the Mini House. Total Granny-chic! So I bought it.

The big chair and its little Mini House brother - almost an exact replica

Sometimes I like to gently rock in it, and talk to the dog, while watching the world and his wife go by outside our bedroom window.

I find it very therapeutic.

The dog has no feelings either way.

But Mr PJ finds it unnerving.

He says that from the street, looking in, I look like Norman Bates' "mother".

Well, if the wig fits.....

The perfect Mini House version  - from the Dolls House Emporium

"It's not like my mother is a maniac or a raving thing. She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?"

Norman Bates. Psycho. 1960.