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.
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3 comments:
Ha, that may have been painful but it made for very funny copy...
Having had this experience many times over the years (not to turn out his light, but to walk to the kitchen for a water refill) I finally got plug-in night lights that guide my way like airport lights on the landing strip. C hated them and unplugged them after a while thinking I wouldn't miss them. I would again stub my toe and get angry and buy new ones and the pattern would repeat itself. At least he doesn't snore.
Well, I actually like him snoring. It actually helps me get off to sleep, but it's also a useful guage as to how deeply he's sleeping, in case I want to, er, do something. Ahem.
I like the night-light idea, especially as The Boyf has a habit of turning the main bedroom light on whenever he get up to use the bathroom. I have a feeling that I'd spend all night pretending to be cabin crew though.
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