Three in the bed

I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, not a wink. Consequently I’m in a seriously grumpy mood.
I mean, how dare all these people invade MY bed? Trouble is, over the summer, I’ve become used to sleeping solo and confess I absolutely love it. I am one of those princess and the pea type sleepers – the tiniest, teeniest, slightest thing will wake me up. The merest movement. The most stifled cough. I suppose it’s a legacy of motherhood, a genetic imprint (though some mothers seem to have the handy habit of being able to sleep through gale force screaming – a smart move as means someone else has to deal with the baby).

I also consider myself the perfect nocturnal companion. I may not be good in many social situations but I am a considerate sleeper with perfect manners. I turn over twice (occasionally four times – has to be even number so end up on left side) and then Do Not Move until dawn. Not one inch. Seriously, I’m positively corpse-like. I’ve watched those films of normal people sleeping and I flinch. They’re so busy. Like Adrian in fact. Adrian is a thrasher, a thresher, a snorer and shouter. I’ve asked him what he dreams about and he says it’s usually about beer – and from where I’m (not) sleeping, he’s obviously having trouble getting his order in as he wrestles and turns and shouts meaningless things (probably trying to get his point across in Czech or Polish). The shouting and thrashing becomes worse when he has a) drunk a lot and b) eaten cheese. So, over the summer (when a lot of beer and cheese was consumed), he decamped to the spare room.

But nature abhors a vacuum and a certain small dog snuck up onto the bed one night. I was sceptical but the SP is my soul sleep mate. He stretches himself down along my back like a long meercat-shaped hot water bottle. Like me, he doesn’t move. We lie in perfect harmony until morning when we both stretch. He gives me a companionable lick on the arm; I stroke him. We are both happy. Until...

‘That dog’s taken my place,’ harrumphed Adrian. ‘I’m coming back.’ Ye gods, do you think he’s jealous?

So we settled down, the SP between us like a chaste bolster (reminding me of childhood holidays with my grandmother who would put a bolster down the bed between me and my friend). What was she worried about? Nine year old lesbian romps?

Anyhow, back to the present. Needless to say, Adrian thrashed, even more than usual. I read two novels through sore eyes. The SP did move – obviously trying desperately hard to shove out the interloper – and, come morning, Adrian was teetering on the edge of the bed with no cover whatsoever – all four puppy paws pushed firmly into his back.

‘Looks like it’s back to separate beds,’ said Adrian grumpily. The SP and I exchanged a look and, quietly, bumped fists.



PS. Actually, since writing this, I have cheered up a little. The postman arrived with a neat little parcel containing THE most gorgeous Xmas bauble from glassmaker Will Shakspeare – (I know, I know and, before you point out, no, there isn't an e missing).  Will was the chap who tried to teach me glassblowing last year (still makes me giggle thinking about it). DO have a look at his website – everything is heavenly but the baubles (£9.50-£21) are affordable heirlooms. I’m planning on buying one each year and building up a collection. Even Adrian (Mr “I don’t get craft” Jones) was impressed.

See?  Isn't it gorgeous?  Looks even lovelier in the "flesh" (um, glass?) actually...