A new bed arrived today. Delivered with the customary upheaval: we had to prepare the space it was to go in - meaning we had to remove the old bed - meaning we found that the old bed wouldn't come apart - meaning the delivery men had to smash it and go - meaning I had to put it together - meaning I damaged myself as is typical in the normal space of any D.I.Y. fiasco. However it is now done; the bed is in place and I gazed down on the finshed scene with pride - or at least satisfaction, that I haven't cocked it up (yet).
The new bed is our first genuinly new bed - the result of a rough couple of months, and a couple of years not sleeping properly. It's quite a statement - of security, of certainty and of a desire to get some decent kip!
My worry is I find it hard enough to get out of bed anyway. In many ways this is a good sign, a return to my normal approach to the wonderful land of snooze, after a few months where my mind wouldn't quiet in the dark. Now that I seem to be 'getting a grip' (to use an especially unhelpful phrase) however, a bed that spreads itself evenly under my ungainly bulk, and supports me in ways previously unknowable to mortal man, may only serve to cocoon me in the duvet as I prepare for a long winter.
I have always considered myself a lazy person; a surprise to many who know me, as I have a tendency to start work early and go on longer than I need. Yet I have always felt I must work hard or else what I have to do just won't get done. It turns out this was more a symptom of being disillusioned with my work and unhappy doing it. Recently I have changed my life, and added more time for my painting (and this little blog thing that is becoming quite a big deal for me), and find I still work hard, but now the extra is for me I find it is less resented, and more celebrated as an opportunity.
This is not to say I don't appreciate sleep, no - in fact I still have the remnants from my time as a teenage connoisseur of the lie-in. Ah! The texture of a softened mattress, the warmth of a snuggled duvet, the downy softness of the marshmallow pillows and the unbriddled joy of turning over to go BACK to sleep.
It is this residual behaviour that forbodes a new comfort. As if some form of evolutionary hangover means I may not be able to prevent myself from giving in to my baser urges - to sleep, perchance to dream. Of course one of the problems I have always had is this desire to stop myself doing things I enjoy, as if constantly measuring myself against an impossible standard that could only be achieved through my own suppression. The excitement of this bed then is the recognition that I can be comfortable, I can enjoy sleep and that I can have sweet dreams. Goodnight... zzz.