The impressive double height ceilings are a case in point. While I love this house aesthetically, some of the things that make it so gorgeous are the very same things that are the bane of my life. Surely anyone else would do the same in my situation? Besides, I’m pretty sure this counts as inhumane working conditions or violates some kind of workplace laws, and if it doesn’t, it should.

But these are extenuating circumstances-almost an emergency, or at least as close to an emergency as I hope to ever get at work.

Technically I shouldn’t be using my employer’s shower, even though they don’t live here, and haven’t done so for years. The only hope of surviving with my sanity somewhat intact and minimal emotional scarring is to scrub away the anxiety under the scalding hot water of the top-of-the-range German engineered shower. This is an arachnophobe’s idea of hell, combined with Room 101. I like a hot shower at the best of times, even more so now when I’m in the midst of a living nightmare, one I’m sure to relive for many nights to come. I pause only briefly to hit the on button located on the wall outside the cubicle, and set the water to super-hot. By the time I leave the elevator and dash toward the basement bathroom connected to the home gym, I’m completely naked and ready to throw myself into the shower stall. Even if this is not a heart attack, I’ll be forced to hack my own head off just to put myself out of my misery, but for now, I settle for running about the house screaming like a banshee, tearing off items of clothing and discarding them as I go. Surely my labored breathing is a sign? Or maybe I’m just having a panic attack? After all, there’s a lot to panic about.

Catching London by M.V. Ellis