For the last two years I’ve joined in the #atozchallenge, namely to post every weekday in April using each letter of the alphabet in turn. In 2015 it was places I’d been to, in 2016 it was London themed. This year it is a dictionary of my family, recounting incidents small and large that have taught me lessons down the years, caused me consternation or generally seared themselves into my memory. I hope you enjoy them. To find other bloggers doing the challenge and maybe be inspired yourself, check out the A to Z Blogging Challenge Blog, here.
As I enter my seventh decade I’ve come to realise that, in the top ten critically important items in my life, a bed that lets me have an uninterrupted sleep is in the top three. Back when I was small and sharing a bedroom with the Archaeologist we had separate beds with mine in the disadvantageous position being nearest the loft hatch (causing me endless heebie-jeebies about what lurked in the dark), next to the windows (we had no heating so my bed cooled quickest in winter) and away from the stairs (so making my route to food longer and more tortuous when called by mum.
That bed too played its part as the Maw of Doom, when my older stronger brother would wrestle his irritating sibling (and, hands up, I was a persistent and annoying little shadow) between mattress and frame and hold me there. He may not remember and he may have only done it once but that sense of being trapped, utterly helpless and yet rather pleased that he had actually noticed me sufficiently to take such drastic action stays with me.
I must have slept in over 100 beds, maybe 500 down the years from those stuffed with horse hair to those riddled with fleas. I’ve rolled off futons and drowned in feathers – one awful four poster thingy in a pub in Long Compton in Warwickshire comes to mind when the weight differential between the Textiliste and me and the viscous softness of the mattress caused us to sink into the soft centre like a thumb into a warm fondant cream and struggle to fight our way out.
These days I’m in need of the Goldilocks of beds – neither too hot, nor too cold, not too lumpy, nor too smooth but just right.
I have that at home and it is a very precious asset.
I was asked not long ago what 3 things I would save if given five minutes to leave the house before it was destroyed.
I thought about dad’s poetry book, photos of family and friends, one of the Textiliste’s quilts but, thinking about it now, I’d spend those 5 minutes dragging my bed and mattress outside.
Does that make me sad and old or just sad? Or very very wise… Or maybe I should just be grateful I have one at all, like Dog