Mez's Magical Music Meme

This week, all of the questions are titles of songs.
I haven't thought about the questions in relation to the actual songs, really, but as questions, for which I thank the lovely Mez, again. xxx

1. Who's been sleeping here?
That's a bit of a Goldilocks question isn't it? Well, in spite of the fact that I leave the keys in the front door, the house is one whole storey high and the ferocious guard dogs - (Stupid and his friend, Even More Stupid) are now toothless (one) and deaf (the other), Goldilocks has not made it into my kitchen to wreak her wrath on my chairs and breakfast. She'd not find much porridge; The Child has milk and biscuits for breakfast and I have coffee and sometimes, if I can be bothered to go to the shop, a custard doughnut. I wouldn't come trudging sleepily back from taking The Child to school, clutching my custard doughnut, to find the door open and bowls of Coco Pops or the odd half-eaten chocolate Digestive on the table - actually, I might, but I wouldn't find it at all strange. As for chairs, they are all the same size, although some are being used as my wardrobe, because I am a lazy so and so and hanging things up means I lose them...
We don't have enough beds in here for Goldilocks to have much of a choice, either: one of the two would be too - actually, it wouldn't be too anything, except maybe too comfortable. The Child has the comfiest bed in the whole world; I will end up in it one of these days. The other bed is also lovely and very warm on account of my fixation for duvets in the plural and thick eiderdown things and bedspreads and stuff, but the cats don't like sharing so much and their grumbling and spitting is enough to keep even the heaviest sleeper awake. Goldilocks wouldn't stand a chance.

2. Where have all the flowers gone?
Me and flowers. It's a Love-Hate thing: I love them, they hate me. My fingers are not green but made of lead or reinforced concrete. I only have to look at flowers with intent to take them out of their natural habitat (the shop or nursery, as far as I am concerned), and they really do wilt before my eyes, and those of the disconsolate florist. I once had a spider plant, Lawrence; I managed to keep him alive for the whole of my university career, although he didn't grow and flourish in the way I have seen other spider plants do. He became the house plant (did you see what I did there? Well, I apologise, and I shan't do it again, ok?) and I left him in the capable hands of someone who was far more suited to plant sitting than I was.
Where have all the flowers gone then? Simple, I made many of them die and I avoid the others out of respect, except from a safe distance.

3. In the Flesh?
Can I distance myself from the song? This time, not for a minute. I have abiding memories of hate, hate, hating Bob Geldof singing this in the film. Of loving the film to bits in spite of it. Didn't I say I was going to ignore the songs and stick with the titles?
In the flesh, in person? Is this what it means? What am I like in the flesh? I think the whole point of my tenuous presence here is to reveal as much as I wish to, to bare as much of my soul and my flesh as I care to and honestly, while I will answer most anything that's asked of me, I don't know how much of the rest of me I will ever be comfortable showing.

4. Do you remember the first time?
Heh. Do I? Oh goodness me yes! If indeed that is what is being referred to here.
That was one of the first times. Life is full of first times: first day at school (I really didn't believe I'd have to go back again and was absolutely disgusted that I did); first kiss (I didn't think I'd ever do that again, but I am bloody glad I persevered); that first time (ditto); first real love (shattered my heart and it is still a bit of a sorry item, stuck together with gaffa tape and with badly touched up paintwork); first experience of having a child (see kiss, etc. but without the repeat performance). Oh so many first times. Everything was a first time, once. Not all these times have gone down on record, or been committed to memory, but some of them have led to second and even third, fourth or fifth times, while others have remained just that, the firsts that teach you not to go back for seconds.

5. Who are you?
Cop out time, kids. I can't answer. The physical nature of me, the flesh if you like, is familiar, so are many of the thought processes and other bits and pieces that make up me. I have a name, the whole identity thing, I am a parent, I have a job, I am the whatever it is I am. I just think I have no real conception of it all, no sense of my place in this world, unless it is to do those things, to be a cog in a mechanism that is far, far bigger than I really want to imagine. Here comes the cop out: aside from those few things I am and do, I don't want to contemplate who or what else I might be?