Hubby came home early from the pub Saturday night.
He walked in the door, took a wobbly double take at me sitting in the living room, and promptly told me that I’m not allowed to talk to him because he is a ghost.
He’s a ghost because usually I wouldn’t have the opportunity to hear his random blather for another two hours, and I’d be asleep by then and avoid it entirely.
Somehow being an incorporeal being (instead of just, um, early home) made the most sense to him.
Love that nutter.