I got called this afternoon by boy s who was in a bit of a panic. We’d ordered a bunk bed so that the cub could host sleepovers in the new flat, and this weekend sees a visitation from the niece and nephew. The problem? The bed wasn’t assembled on arrival, and so I was needed as an experienced furniture constructor.
Or, as boy s put it: I need a manlier man to adult.
So I learned a new set of construction skills reading the instructions and balancing items so I could create the frame while boy s retrieved the cub from school.
Old dog learns new tricks? More like old dog applies old tricks in new ways. It’s a nice bunkbed. Now to assemble the new super king-size back home
Sliding down the bed from a position of comfort to what can only be hoped is an entrance to sleep. Muscles grown used to semi-reclined posture signal their momentary discomfort, but whether in hope of a ceasing or completion of the maneuver is harder to say.
A book read, now ended, rests on the bedside table. It’s cover gleams in the illumination of the small lamp beside it, beckoning just one more caress of the spine and a turning of its pages. Its siren call of ‘one more chapter’ is now a whisper of ‘what comes next?’
Sleep beckons, but the stimulated mind resists, churning and coiling with words and phrases seeking each other’s meaning and completion; repetition battles a growing weariness until it itself ceases to have meaning and becomes thumping noise rattling inside my skull.
I should be sleeping, but instead my muse is calling. Instead of flutes and flowers and the promise of sweet caresses however, she has her hobnail boots on, and is thoughtfully swinging a snooker ball in a sock.
Body aching and protesting before I’ve even settled, with a brain on fire and babbling nonsense, I know when I’m beaten – and so to my notebook I must turn