A NIGHT WITHOUT………….
A night without…………….
Without what? Coronation Street, supper, a nice hot bath before bedtime or the chance of a bit of mid week naughties with Joe.
Any one of those would have been preferable to the tortuous hours I had just spent pathetically rolling around our bed trying to locate the elusive Morpheus. Rubbing my eyes and stifling a rather large yawn, I ran my fingers through my matted hair, cringed as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and slumped down on the sofa in resignation. Cat gave me a quizzical stare, sniffed the air and sashayed out into the kitchen, not even affording me a backwards glance as I studiously examined the chipped nail varnish on my big toe.
“Mave, can I have toast with mine, oh and some marmalade but only if its rough cut……a bit like yourself my little night owl…” Joe’s voice carried down the stairs, breaking off only to allow himself a loud guffaw of laughter followed by the sound of squeaking floorboards, the bathroom door slamming shut and a rather echoing rendition of Mr Sandman to a backdrop of toilet flushing.
“Very funny Joe!” I threw a teabag into his Superman mug and contemplated a spoonful of salt instead of sugar. I was used to pulling all-nighters in work but never, ever on rest days. Picking up my mug of tea I studiously watched the bubbles swirl round as Joe’s heavy footsteps made their way back across the landing towards the bedroom.
The night had started off promisingly enough when I had buried my head into the pillow just before midnight, forgoing my usual spoons position with Joe. After much prodding and ear licking from him which went largely unnoticed by me, and with no promise of anything other than a peck on the cheek, he had promptly turned over and within seconds was expelling air through his mouth with all the elegance of an overgrown warthog. Closing my eyes I had let out a disgusted sigh along with a rather sharp elbow nudge to his back. Curling up, I pulled the duvet over my head……..
……..and so it began………
The clocked ticked away the seconds, and the seconds turned into minutes, I tumbled, turned and fidgeted as sleep continued to elude me. As the minutes became hours and Joe’s snoring reached new crescendo’s, I quietly contemplated the pleasure it would give me to place my £3.99 Argos pillow over his face and press down firmly.
Then, in the true despair of an insomniac, my nocturnal activities began in earnest;
The object is to travel several miles around my king size bed in search of the most comfortable, squishy position you can find. You know the one, where your wobbly bits flop to one side giving you the ability to tuck them underneath you or bury them in the memory foam mattress, thus avoiding any unfortunate lumps, bumps or wrinkles.
Not so much a DIY tummy tuck, more of a full-on belly button repositioning.
If I’m lucky it only strays a mere two inches from centre, if I’m unlucky it slides sideways to sit nicely alongside the small butterfly tattoo that was etched just above my right hip during a particularly drunken night out two years ago with the girls from work. I had woken the next morning full of remorse and holding a pair of huge belly-hugging M&S knickers bought to hide it as Billy Butterfly’s unfortunate positioning meant that his antennas poked scarily over the top of my normal knickers to resemble a stray pubic hair.
If my choice sleeping position is not found, it’s time to move, shift, turn, plump and re-plump the pillows several times before adopting another position.
Lie on my right side….
………lie on my left side.
Decide right side is preferable as then I don’t have to sniff or inhale too deeply the garlicky fumes emanating from Joe’s open mouth.
Duvet on, duvet off, one leg hanging out of the bed then two legs hanging out of the bed….all change to both legs in, one arm under the ready plumped pillow. Ten second pause and change again, this time both legs out enabling bare curvy butt to hang over the side of the bed.
Lie in the darkness and imagine Chucky from my worst nightmare is under the bed.
A feeling of intense fear washes over me.
What if bare curvy butt gets grabbed, bitten or poked by naughty Chucky? Hastily pull duvet back over bare curvy butt and hope that Chucky doesn’t have a penchant for duck feathers as well as curvy butts.
Lie still, eyes straining into the darkness, auditory senses on high alert waiting for any Chucky-type crawling or thudding noises to emanate from under the bed.
Lie on my right side, lie on my left side.
Right leg over left leg, left leg over right leg…..
Right boob under right armpit…..
Left boob also under right armpit…!
Lie in the darkness, momentarily still and wonder how the hell that happened. Make mental note to check in daylight if left boob is longer than right boob.
Lie on my back with both boobs under armpits. Turn on to tummy both arms under pillows, feel boobs sinking into the memory foam mattress and have visions of Chucky under the bed getting his eyes poked out. I begin to wonder why men don’t have these problems, and then quietly snigger as I think about where Joe’s love spuds go when he lies on his side.
Turn over too quickly and end up face planted under Joe’s hairy left armpit. Try hard not to inhale too deeply and then have the delight of what I hope is Joe’s nasal hair brush softly against my cheek.
Left nostril now bunged up, turn over and left nostril conveniently clears but now right nostril is bunged up making breathing difficult. Try and breathe through mouth but this makes for very unladylike little snorty sounds. Lie on my back again which is a total waste of time as both nostrils now bung up and start to make awful squealy noises….
Squeeze eyes tightly shut and pray for sleep.
See dancing stars and floaty things, which reminds me that I haven’t taken the last load of washing out of the washing machine which is leaking water into the drum, so all my ‘floaty things’, including my best Primark size 18-20 thongs in Petunia Pink will be sopping wet again…
Shit, there we have it – word association.
Water…..water…..swishing, trickling water.
Now I desperately need the toilet.
Get up, creep around the bed and fall over Joe’s shoes. Hurtle headlong towards the dressing table and knock the candlestick off, manage to catch the candlestick but not the candle, which hits the wardrobe with a thud. Leg it to the bathroom, hopping on one foot as the tiles are freezing whilst trying to skate the bath mat towards the toilet to eliminate risk of another bout of tortuous sciatica.
Peel off last remaining scrap of Aldi’s best single ply, wafty bog pager that is attached to the cardboard inner, which then rips and shreds into strips. Hunt around for new bog roll within reach, when this fails, resort to dabbing my nether regions with the remaining floaty strips and twerking frantically in lieu of a blow dry before legging it back to bed.
Both legs in, curvy butt covered, no sign of Chucky, two pillows plumped, right side position, nostrils clear, belly button two inches from centre, everything sucked in, tucked in and secure……looking good…………..
………and then the alarm clock went off.
Joe’s arm had flung out from underneath the duvet, knocking it to snooze;
“Come on lazy bones, time for up, your turn for breakfast in bed………..”
Stirring two sugars in to Joe’s mug of tea, whilst stifling another yawn, I looked out of the window and smiled to myself.
I had afforded Joe two loving words this morning in response to his request …..and strangely enough, the second word was ‘off’.
(c) 2015 Gina Kirkham
Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong