Double Trouble

I was in my usual position, clinging on for dear life at the very edge of the mattress: the domain of waking husbands all over the western world: the bed ghetto. Of the duvet that was covering me last night there was no sign, presumably my wife had confiscated it as part of her nocturnal megalomania routine. You’ve heard of sleepwalkers? Well she is a sleep looter. I am convinced that she cannot get a truly satisfying night’s sleep until I have been kicked to the very cusp of the mattress and robbed of all covers. Often, in the night, I will reach across for a sip of water and find she has drunk the lot and stolen my pillow. Most mornings I wake early, cold, bruised and thirsty, while my wife emerges from her massive duvet cocoon like a happy butterfly. Bed thieves and their victims eh? If you share a bed on a regular basis with the same person you are either one or the the other. I have adapted to this Promethian torture in surprising ways: from time to time my wife will reprimand me for the length of my toenails and I will inform her that I need them to cling, yes CLING, sloth-like to the edge of the bed, that these natural crampons are all that seperate me from total divan eviction every night.
But Saturday morning none of that mattered, I wouldn’t be sleeping in this bed ever again. Ever again. I lay there reveling in this fact and attempting to pass wind silently – a man has his hobbies. Occasionally a bedspring would detonate mysteriously somewhere beneath me and I would smile dear reader, for today was the day that the new bed was coming. A super king size, memory foam, pocket sprung something or other. A bed so massive that it’s gravitational pull was actually capable of creating lay-ins and early nights. A bed so royally massive it crossed time zones and came with a sherpa guide. Okay it didn’t come with a sherpa guide but it damn well could’ve. This was a bed that transcended the grasp of the bed thief in sheer width. We’d received an automated text on Friday night letting us know that it would be arriving between 7am and 8am on Saturday morning. I was impressed. I thought “hey these guys don’t hang around, these guys have got their act together, an hour window sent to us by text the day before – wow”.
 
What could possibly go wrong? Well let me tell you.
 
I have presented my misfortune in bulletpoint form for your concise enjoyment.

Empty drawers of clothes, giving wife ample opportunity to throw away clothes “I don’t wear anymore”

Dismantle double bed in pants with favourite screwdriver

Remove double bed from house for pick up later that day.

Heroically refuse assistance.

Sweat profusely hauling divan, mattress, 4 drawers and headboard down stairs.

Wife asks for hoover to give newly revealed under-bed carpet a good clean.

Whilst dragging hoover up the stairs – tread on dinosaur toy.

Say rude word.

Hoover blows up in bedroom in loud stink-bang-fizzle for no apparent reason.

Soil myself.

Say another rude word.

Sent to 24 hour Mega Supermarket to get new Hoover.

Tread on same dinosaur taking knackered hoover back downstairs.

Say another rude word.

Tread on snail getting into car, crunch-squish makes me retch.

Attractive jogger sees me retch.

On way to supermarket get snapped by speed camera van.

Many rude words.

Choose new hoover and head back at more sedate pace.

Arrive home, “Hospice in the Weald” taking old double bed away.

Driver from Hospice in the Weald thanks me for my “contribution”.

Take Hoover inside.

Notice dirty boot prints all the way through hallway and upstairs.

Am informed that the Hospice in the Weald man went upstairs.

Enquire why?

Told he needed to borrow screwdriver to detach headboard from bed.

Make joke about wet mud being good test for hoover.

Try to assemble hoover and quickly realise need favourite screwdriver.

Cannot find favourite screwdriver anywhere.

Becomes clear charity worker has still got favourite screwdriver

Have to admit to wife that “favourite” means “only”

Call “Hospice in the Weald” charity worker a “fucking thief”

Apologise to children.

Borrow next door’s screwdriver.

Assemble hoover and complete pre-delivery clean up.

Phone rings.

Delivery company inform us that new bed won’t be here for another 5 days.

Look at space where beloved double bed used to be.
Say rude word
Retch.
Soil myself.

The End.

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