At some point during the night I was woken up by Carole shouting “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
Now, rather than alarm me as you may think it would, I can take all this with a pinch of salt now. And what it usually means is that Peppa has burrowed under the duvet and gone to sleep somewhere round our knees and has, for some reason, woken up feeling slightly threatened and stuck her claws into the nearest thing she can find.
Which is usually an arse.
In this case Carole’s.
And Carole with shout “Ow!” and then huff and puff a bit and lift up the duvet so Peppa can escape.
That’s what always happens.
Apart from last night. Last night something more magical happened.
Carole did all the “ow!” stuff, but didn’t really wake up. She didn’t huff or puff. She didn’t lift the duvet or release Peppa from under the duvet.
Now, ordinarily, as I think I have mentioned before, I usually pretend that I am asleep during these interludes so that I won’t get dragged into it or dragged into a conversation about what kind of wallpaper we should have in the bedroom at 3am in the morning because I am, apparently, a captive audience at this time.
But no. This time I couldn’t stay asleep because things were different. There was a disturbance in the force, as someone in a dressing gown might say.
“What are you ow-ing at?” I asked a still-sleeping Carole, not really expecting a reply.
“The needlebooks,” she replied. As if that was a perfectly acceptable answer to my question.
Now, the thing is, this is not unusual. Not by any stretch of the imagination. While I might wake myself up by loudly breaking wind, Carole is the mistress of talking in her sleep or sitting bolt upright and shouting “I’m not ready!” Or, for that matter, asking if we have any bell jars. Which we don’t, by the way. Not a one.
All I can assume is that as Peppa’s claws stuck into Carole’s bum cheek, her subconscious mind tried to make it better for her by somehow imagining that it was some kind of sewing accessory favoured by the older woman.
Every night’s an adventure…