Bed Bugged

I seem to have fallen into an old habit. I suppose it’s not necessarily a horrible one, but it’s one that I think keeps me from being a member of civilized society.

No, it’s not taking up smoking again in solidarity against the upcoming ban. Although I do have a bit of a sore throat this morning which is, no doubt, somewhat attributable to last night’s Marlboro Lights.

So what is this new private praxis?

I confess. I have become a sofa sleeper.

With two perfectly functional and serenely comfortable beds in this flat, I have woken up this morning, yet again, on the couch. A couch that, I might add, whose cushions only span sixty inches. For those of you keeping score at home, that’d be fourteen inches less than this humble scribe’s once-lanky frame.

One would think stretching out on a king-size mattress would be more comfortable. Or if that particular slumber sanctuary is less than soporific due to a certain someone’s snoring, the queen-sized cradle in the blissful back bedroom is surely a viable option.

But no, like a little kid who can’t keep his eyes open but swears he’s not tired, I stay in the living room and curl up with a cushion, waiting to hear how tonight's crime drama will be resolved. I’ll go to be in ten more minutes … I promise. And no, I won’t put the magic quilt over me, because if I’m that cold, I should just go get under the covers.

Idiot.

So now it’s morning. I’m in the clothes I wore to work yesterday, drinking a cup of tea and wondering if my back would feel any better had slept in the bed (which, on the plus side, doesn’t need making today). I had the whole flat to myself last night … you’d think I’d have taken advantage of more than the living room.

Oh well. We move on.

CB arrives this afternoon, and Peter comes on Monday for his monthly visit. Oops, I’ve double-booked the B&B.

That’s okay. Larry’s out of town for the week. CB can have my bed on Monday night and I’ll be perfectly happy to sleep on the sofa.