I have some MS stuff going on. Nothing serious, nothing that is going to derail the program, or, let’s face it, me, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.
I have not slept in a single bed since I left boarding school. 1997 in fact.
Usually a king. Occasionally a queen. Once in a blue moon, a double. The bed is fine. It’s reasonably comfortable, reasonably supportive. The sheets are fine.
It’s . . . just . . . small.
Which is a bit odd, because I swear to you I fought a war in my bed last night. I woke up this morning and the pillow was on the floor, half the sheet was off the bed and the comforter had been swallowed by the space between the bed and the wall.(1).
I don’t understand it. Not that I trashed a bed, I do that in sleeping. I am apparently murder to sleep with.
I don’t understand how I had the energy to have that battle, and I don’t understand how there was the space.
Bed must be miraculous.
(1) This is not a bad thing. The comforter was designed by a colour blind, unloved, oldest child with something against authority.