Where family history’s concerned, it’s surprising where an insistent thought can take you. Bed has very much been on my mind this month. Our bedroom has become our favourite ‘warm space’ in an expensively chilly winter, furnished in five-star style with hot water bottles, kettle, biscuit jar, TV, and the cat. We even have a mini fridge to match the duck-egg decor. It’s now more flatlet than boudoir.
After Christmas, we decided to replace our aging mattress with an all singing, all dancing adjustable bed. It arrived (eventually,) was manoeuvred up our dog-leg stairs, and was partly erected by skilled workmen. Then dismantled, dragged downstairs again, being the wrong size. Our spring-pinging old mattress was retrieved from outside and reinstated on the defunct divan, everyone thanking goodness the rain had held off. As I write, we’re still waiting.