Dec 8, 2019: Smash

It’s good to know that we can add another thing to the list of many, many things that Carole can sleep through.

Yesterday, Carole’s quest for warmth managed to almost superheat the air in the house to such high levels that we were forced, in December, to open the windows to cool the place down.

The only problem with that was that as the night drew on, the wind got stronger. And the open windows created a breeze throughout the house. This did take the edge of the stifling heat, but it also caused doors to blow around (on their hinges, not all round the house like an untethered garden trampoline in a hurricane).

So that was one thing we could add to the list of things Carole can sleep through almost straight away, doors blowing almost shut repeatedly. I was downstairs and could hear the bedroom door blowing closed over and over again. It was annoying the fudge out of me, so how it wasn’t disturbing her is baffling to m… no, wait, it’s not. The woman can sleep through anything.


So this continued for a time. And then there was a massive gust, which blew one of the doors shut upstairs. Loudly. It was very, very loud. Carole slept on. It was the kind of loud bang where you go, “What the fuck was that?” and have to go and investigate.

This bang, however was followed by a further bang, and then the sound of smashing glass.

What the actual fuck was that?


I hear this. I immediately start running scenarios in my head as to what it out possibly be. Before I’ve even really left the couch, my brain has done a breakdown of where things that could be blown over are, what they could be and what glass we have that could have smashed.

It has come up blank.

I thought it was, maybe, the stepladder we use to access the loft, falling over as part of a domino effect and smashing something. But I couldn’t account for the something. My biggest fear was that it was a window. But I couldn’t run any scenario that made sense.

So I head upstairs in the dark. Bare footed. Which is not a wise idea, it turns out, because at the top of the stairs is destruction.

However, I must have seen something in the dark which stopped me short of stepping onto the glass. My heightened senses saved me.

I flicked on the upstairs landing light. Again, not a fricking movement from Carole.

There on the landing is a picture frame which was on the wall. it has fallen from the wall, travelled across to the opposite side of the hallway and smashed.

Really smashed. To smithereens.

I picked it up. Sliced my finger in the process. Swore. Bled a bit. Swore some more.

Still she sleeps.

I pick all the glass up on the back of the frame, it’s all tinkly and jingly. Still nothing. I carry it down the stairs, still bleeding, still muttering. She sleeps on. I put it in the kitchen, put a plaster on my wound, then go and call for Peppa to make sure she hasn’t walked through the glass – she ran upstairs at the sound of the crash – and cut her paws.

Still nothing.

She slept through the whole damn thing.

There is nothing that woman can’t sleep through.

Apart from my snoring, apparently.