A Night-time Drama

The Boyf has fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, as usual, which inevitably means he's already snoring by the time I've cleaned my teeth and put on my best M&S nightie and hair-net.

I climb into bed, snuggle myself down under the duvet, pop my iPod on and open my book ("Dirty White Boy" by Clayton Littlewood, which a friend bought for my birthday. It's Clayton's diary of two years of owning the DWB clothes shop on Old Compton Street, and is a great read if you love Soho).

The Boyf's snoring takes on a harder edge as he slips further down into sub-consciousness, and in my ears the soundtrack to "The Dark Knight" is struggling to make itself heard. The quieter movements are drowned out completely, making me forget that I even have music on, and causing me to jump at a sudden crescendo.

I read for an hour, til 1am, as is my way. I'm not really tired but know I must turn off the light and try to sleep to be fit for work in the morning. The only light in the room is the table lamp on the other side of The Boyf, and he's clearly out for the count so I don't want to disturb him. So I decide to gently slip out of bed and walk round to turn it off.

All goes well until the light goes out, and I'm assaulted by the darkness. We'd bought especially well-lined curtains earlier in the year, to help us get to sleep when we troll in from a club at 8am on a bright summer Sunday morning, not realising that our days of doing that seemed to be numbered. The curtains, coupled with the fact that I've just had to stare straight at the lamp to find the switch, means I'm suddenly blind.

Ok, let's get back to bed. I retrace my steps, but misjudge where I am, and before I can stop myself I've caught my shin on the corner of the bed and I'm falling. On the way down I head-butt the chest of drawers and land in a heap, stifling a cry into a soft "Mumph". I lay there for a moment, whilst The Boyf stirs, but then his snoring returns to normal so I decide to get up. My leg hurts, and as I rub it I can feel something sticky, so I've obviously cut myself on the edge of the bed. Cheap bloody Ikea bed!

Back on my feet I still have to find my side of the bed, but have now lost all track of how far forward I fell. So once up I step boldly forward and "Crack!" face-first into the end of the door, which has been left ajar. I stifle another cry and listen for The Boyf, who's snoring doesn't miss a beat.

Bugger this! I turn in the direction of my side of the bed, stubbing my big toe on the other bottom corner of the bed and finally, softly, climb in on my side. I lay there breathing heavily for a few moments, trying to decide which part of me hurts more, and deciding that I really can't be bothered to find out how badly my leg is bleeding. I'll let nature take it's course with that one.

Finally I relax and move into my comfortable position ready for sleep.

Tomorrow I don't care whether he wakes or not - I'm leaning across The Boyf to turn out the light.

Oh, If I Must...

We've not been out much recently, and when we have I really don't seem to be in to it (and I'm aware that I've been saying that for some time now). So I'm in limbo at the moment, feeling odd if I stay in but not enjoying it when I'm out. Maybe this is part of growing up. A case in point was XXL on Saturday night, in which the intrepid/tepid (depending on your viewpoint) Freemasons took to the decks for a brisk/paltry set (90 mins) in which they seemed to only play their own productions. As I'd mentioned to a friend a couple of weeks before, a normal XXL night is a Freemasons production fest as it is, so how would we be able to tell the difference? The answer was, we couldn't. They might as well not have turned up, frankly, as most people didn't know what they looked like anyway and couldn't tell the difference in the music being played. Someone commented on how good they'd been at one point, and we had to inform him that the Freemasons hadn’t even started yet.

But it sure did bring in the crowds. XXL was rammed, with a 6 deep queue at the bars and no extra staff (as per usual). Quite how I managed to get enough drinks down me to end up plastered is quite beyond me, but I succeeded. And I had the mother of all hangovers on Sunday. She was an ugly, spiteful mother too, with a habit for foot-stamping.

And the tottie? Yup, there were hot men there, that's for sure, but the hottest guys would have gone to the simultaneously running Megawoof. But I just couldn't be bothered to make the effort with anyone. Yeah, I snogged a guy or two, but when 4 separate guys made it obvious they wanted to come home with us I made it pretty clear I wasn't interested (even though in all cases I really should have been, cause each was certainly do-able, and I'm kinda picky). I just couldn't be arsed (pardon the pun) with going through the motions of having to drag someone home and then spending a good couple of hours making like snakes on the carpet, and then having to kick them out afterwards. Perhaps The Boyf has got the better idea - he always ends up in a sauna, which is as quick and simple as you'd want.

So, I'm finding a general level of apathy for going out, and for picking up trade. In fact, my apathy seems to be spreading to other areas of my life, as you can probably tell with my incredibly lax blogging. I can't really be bothered to go to the gym (although The Boyf's ensuring that he forces me), and I'm eating badly. I think I know what's wrong, but the problem is too big for me to deal with at the moment, but it's not a revelation I want to be making here just yet. I know I can't let things go on forever though.