I'm glad I didn't, obviously, but Fucking Hell.
For context, Stuff Happened in my past (a lot of Stuff ) and combining that with Christmas, working in a plague infested school, a couple of attempted break ins that failed in the last five years, no more than 4-5 hours' sleep a night since September, knowing I'm CV, etc, etc, I sleep the sleep of the Dead once I finally drop off somewhere between 1 and 3am until 5.45am. Dreams? Nah, I'd have to sleep long enough to remember having them.
Until I ended up not having to go to work because the school closed early (yep, Plague again). So I'm sort of sleeping longer and getting a few not very nice dreams. Suppose my brain's got to try and process all the shit at some point and six hours is long enough for it to start happening.
DP woke me up at about 5.30am getting up for work (not deliberately) and I went back to sleep (for a change, as that's when I get up for work normally). Cue one particularly lengthy and unpleasant dream with stuff from the past mixed in. All in Glorious Technicolor and with physical sensations. Marvellous.
At just past 9am, I wake up from deep sleep to what sounded like somebody forcing the front door. After enough time to be properly conscious, it wasn't another Amazon Man unleashing his inner 'I'm in The Sweeney' police raid knock, and it sounded as though they were ransacking downstairs. Only one thing to do in this situation, right? Deal with them by giving them the biggest shock of their life so they run back out of the front door.
I get up, grab the first thing to hand (folding music stand - don't ask) and silently pick my way around the creaking floorboards to the stairs. As I look down them, somebody dressed in all black emerges from behind the spare room door to my right. I howl like a Banshee's pet cat and, brandishing the folded up lump of steel, leap back, ready to smash the stand into the assailant's temple and shove them down the stairs - to see DP with his life currently flashing before his eyes.
He's come home from work as he isn't needed, faffed around opening the front door, clattered around like an utter twat so as to not wake me up and then didn't notice I'd got up because I apparently move like a sixteen stone Fucking Ninja in the house and he was obviously making more noise than usual because he was trying to be quiet. He most probably had his earphones in with Punk Music on at ear destroying volume downstairs anyhow
He got a very lengthy, loud and profanity strewn explanation of what I had thought was going on and what I thought of him for doing it. Had there been a bloke from the Beeb recording it, it would have sounded like I was speaking in Morse Code (I swear on here, not in person, as a rule).
He made me a (too strong) black coffee, brought Paracetamol as my head was banging from being woken up plus some toast and is now hiding upstairs being far more quiet than when he was trying to not wake me up. I'm not sure whether he's up there because he feels guilty about genuinely scaring the crap out of me or because I scared the crap out of him.
Anyhow, the AIBU;
Do I;
YABU: Apologise for scaring and swearing at him (he'll say it's fine)?
or
YANBU: Adopt the DTwatCat's method of dealing with anything vaguely undignified or potentially incriminating and pretend nothing has happened whilst becoming suddenly fascinated by the birds on the feeder in the garden?
I do recognise, of course, that had he come into the bedroom, I might have been equally alarmed, but at least I would have seen it was him instantly, rather than just as a dark shape moving towards me from out of my blind spot.
By the way, it's sort of lighthearted, but I genuinely thought we'd been broken into and I was in danger. Just not as much as he thought he was at the top of the stairs.