Sunday Scribblings: Bed
I am the bed that Miss Meep has slept in for the past six years. Six years of naps, deep sleeps, dreams, novels, breakfasts, tears, laughter, kisses, cuddles and… well… all that other stuff that married ladies do.
(Like the washing up and the ironing - boom, boom.)
I could tell you a lot about Miss Meep. Believe me, I’ve seen it all. She bounces on me when she’s happy, she cries into me when she’s sad. I know what she dreams about and what she looks like first thing in the morning (the words Worzel and Gummidge spring to mind).
Some mornings, she can’t wait to leave me. After eight hours curled up together, that’s it – she’s off. She leaps off me as soon as Sarah Kennedy waffles out of the little clock on the bedside table, as if she’s just discovered that I’m a football-loving, Sun-reading, McDonalds-munching, member of the BNP. I do have feelings, you know.
Other mornings, she lazes around in me, surrounded by newspapers and cups of tea. I don’t think she’s ever going to get up. Doesn’t she know I get all out of sorts if I don’t get an airing before mid-day?
She’s got the grace of an overweight 8-year-old in ballet class. She walks into me, drunk on dreams, when she gets up for a wee in the middle of the night. She’s tipped a glass of carrot juice on me, staining my mattress the colour of Dale Winton after a fortnight in Marbella with Cilla, not to mention dozens of glasses of water and cups of tea. I won’t even mention the Great Strawberry Smoothie Incident of 2006.
Some nights, she tosses and turns, waking up sporadically, huffing and puffing about her lack of sleep. Other nights, she’s totally out of it. The only noise I hear is when she shouts out random dream-speak, like ‘Get the rhubarb, Majorie’ or ‘Put the hamster in the coal scuttle’.
There are things that are constant though. Every night, she gets under the duvet with her cup of camomile and her latest read and settles down for a few chapters before she hits the pillow. Before she’s even two sips and two pages in, her head’s dropping forward and her eyes are closing, so she gives up and falls asleep. Every night, without fail. And she calls herself a reader?
Once a month, she goes a little bit funny. She ditches her usual cute little sleeping outfits and puts on a pair of old fleecy pyjamas that really don’t do much for those thighs. She curls up into a ball, clutching a hot water bottle to her stomach, occasionally putting down her copy of Closer (yes, that’s right, a bloomin’ gossip mag – I mean, it’s usually all The Ecologist and novels from the Booker shortlist – I told you she goes a bit funny) to shovel Munchies into her mouth and moan “Make it stop, make it stop…” to no-one in particular, in a voice that makes her sound like a puppy with a mangled paw.
There’s plenty more that I could reveal, but that sort of information doesn’t come for free. Treat me to some Egyptian cotton sheets and a new mattress and I just might tell you more.
More Sunday Scribblings here.