My husband hasn’t had a particularly good week. A lot of driving about, long hours and a distinct lack of sleep. And as is so often the way when life is super busy, you hit the pillow only to find the brain in overdrive. Sleep – the very thing you crave – doesn’t always happen.
Mr V needs noise in order to
sleep. I’m the opposite. I need silence so thick and heavy you can
hear the proverbial pin drop. Which
doesn’t make for a restful night with my husband.
In order to solve this
conflict of noise and silence, Mr V goes to bed with a radio and headphones. He plugs himself into Talk Sport and is gone within
seconds. At some point during the night
the earphones and my husband’s head part company and invariably creep (the
earphones, not my husband’s head) across the divide where they rest upon my
pillow emitting a tinny racket. This
disturbs my sleep and drives me ever so slightly nuts. To say I’m a crosspatch in the morning is an
understatement. I have vaguely wondered
if crosspatch quilts were derived
from furious sleep-deprived spouses spending their wakeful nights sewing. But I digress.
Over the years we have
attempted to resolve our respective sleep issues by getting bigger beds. Married life with Mr V started out in the bog
standard 4’ 6” double bed. One year later
it had been shelved for a King size five footer.
‘Isn’t it lovely having extra
room,’ said my husband as he star-fished out.
‘What extra room?’ I asked, hugging
the edge of the mattress.
In time a house move
occurred. Fantastic – a huge master
bedroom! I wasted no time in sourcing a
‘Ooooh, look!’ I drooled at
pictures of bespoke seven footers.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said my
husband, ‘Queen size will suffice.’
I must confess, changing all
the sheets on a large double bed is not something I look forward to. Try shaking a six foot duvet into its quilt
cover single-handed. It’s a task that leaves
you hot, bothered, and muttering silent oaths.
Meanwhile Mr V still persists
in star-fishing out leaving me perched on the edge. And as for my husband’s bedtime radio, I can
honestly say I hate the contraption with a passion. Take last night. Mr V’s headphones had gone AWOL. For once they weren’t on my pillow. He felt all over the bed but couldn’t find
them. So what did he do? He listened to the radio without headphones. But
being that he needs NOISE to go to sleep, he turned the volume up. As my husband tumbled
blissfully down the corridors of sleep, I rose to the surface in a total
panic. What the hell was that? Male voices were everywhere. Had we been broken into? Were there burglars in the house or, I
gulped, this very bedroom? Breaking into
a muck sweat – which was nothing to do with hormonal hot flushing – I flicked
the bedside lamp on and then grabbed it ready to bash Mr Burglar’s brains out.
Which was how Mr V awoke to
find the room flooded with light and his wife, wild-eyed and snarling,
brandishing a B & Q lamp.
There was a mildly happy
ending. Mr V discovered his headphones
at the bottom of the bed. The wire was
in a total tangle. I left him unknitting
the jumble and took myself off to the spare room. Is this the only way forward for a decent
Which reminds me of the
insomniac who went to the doctor.
‘Doctor, doctor! I haven’t slept
for days!’ The doctor looked at his
patient and said, ‘Try sleeping at night.’