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Peter Rook: on sleeping alone
The sleeping habits of the singleton reborn are very different from when he was married. When he was married, he would be an unwilling participant in the wrestling match known as the night-time duvet dog fights, where both sexes would employ devious tactics and techniques to win the coveted duvet – such as leaving a flappy bit of material that doesn't actually have any duvet inside over the partner and the plump, well-stuffed section over themselves.
The sleeping habits of the singleton reborn are very different from when he was married.
When he was married, he would be an unwilling participant in the wrestling match known as the night-time duvet dog fights, where both sexes would employ devious tactics and techniques to win the coveted duvet – such as leaving a flappy bit of material that doesn't actually have any duvet inside over the partner and the plump, well-stuffed section over themselves.It is something I have remarked upon in a previous column, and, at the time, struck a chord with many a reader.
I have also pontificated in the past on the illicit joys of a lie-in in the morning without the requests for a cup of tea or "I'm sure it's your turn to get up with the kids today".
Nowadays, I get a night's relatively unbroken sleep (apart from the odd visit to the loo, but that's my age).
When I go to bed at night, my clothes are tossed with gay abandon on the floor beside the bed – but not so as to obscure my exit to the bathroom should I need it in the night – and I pull back the duvet and climb inside.
I'm in bed within seconds of brushing my teeth and no longer have to clear away the menagerie of one-eyed stuffed furry toys from the duvet before settling in.
The marital bed resembled a refuge for dog-eared, moth-eaten unwanted cuddly toys.
There was the hippo, the gerbil, the Womble, the Teddy, the one-eyed bunny given to her by a previous boyfriend as a token of his undying love and esteem before he ran off with another woman.
At times I thought I had stumbled into some nightmarish swingers' party – especially when I mischievously (and immaturely) placed the one-eyed bunny (called Flopsy) in the missionary position with the hippo.
There were times when I would give Flopsy the one-eyed bunny an affectionate little drop kick towards the end of the bed if the ex was nowhere to be seen.
"Take that Flopsy. And there's more where that came from." There were times when I was wracked with guilt for dispatching him so. It felt akin to animal cruelty and that at any given moment an RSPCA flying squad was going to burst into the bedroom and take me down.
Living alone now means that I only have to share my bed with tens of thousands of microscopic mites devouring my rotting, crumbling flesh.
I don't have any cuddly toys on my bed. Middle-aged men don't tend to go in for that sort of thing – unless they are the kind of middle-aged men who have never married, are called Brian and still live with their mums.
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Saturday 26 May 2012
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