I went to bed last night, and it was bloody cold. There’s no two ways about it. It was cold. I was looking forward to snuggling down under the duvet and absorbing some of the lovely warmth that had been generated by Carole as she snoozed her way through a crap 80s film with Eric Roberts.
Sadly, none of that was to be, as Carole had decided to fall asleep in what I foolishly think of as my side of the bed. I mean, yes, there was some mattress available to me. But it wasn’t substantial. It was like I was a farmer and I’d turned up to my beautiful field to find a rival farmer had, quickly and quietly, moved the boundary walls so that my lovely field of corn was just one or two rows.
What made it worse was that after I’d maneuvered my way into bed as best I could – all the while thinking that there must be a whole heap of space I could get into on Carole’s side of the bed – my body made contact with Carole’s.
Which woke her up and caused her to complain that I was like a block of ice.
She didn’t move. I’d like to point out. She stayed exactly where she was. She just made “brrr” noises.
I once made some fried egg sandwiches and, before I could eat them, they were taken from me by Carole. She ate them all and then complained that there was a little too much pepper on them for her liking. Which is mainly because at no point during the sandwich making process were they ever being made to her liking. They were my sandwiches. And then they weren’t.
The bed thing was like that. I didn’t really have a bed I could get into and enjoy and when I did get in the temperature of my body wasn’t really to Carole’s liking. I usually have a good few minutes to warm up my limbs before I will approach her slumbering frame for any sort of cuddle. But I was forced into it by a situation not of my making. Just like the egg sandwiches.
It’s no wonder my hair’s going grey…