A bedtime story
by Patricia Marson
1st place CHARACTER-DRIVEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION £100
Having a break from her hobby of art quilting, but not bridge, about which she remains obsessed, Pat took up short story writing a while ago and aims to emulate the humour and writing of her son James and the empathy of her son Alan. She lives with her husband of nearly fi fty years, who is her kindest critic.
I’ve just weed the bed and apparently I should know better at ten years old. I don’t know how to know better and nobody will tell me. However, it’s the first night so it doesn’t matter. They’re always nice to you to begin with – when they still think they’re the ones to change your life. They only start to get narky when they get fed up stripping the bed night after night. They think they’ve done everything they can to help you (and most of them have) but you still let them down. They don’t realise they can’t ever give you what you want so they are wasting their time. I used to try not to wet the bed. I would go to the toilet two or three times and squeeze out every drop I could before they ‘tucked me in’ but it doesn’t work, so I’ve stopped bothering. I can’t remember the number of times – probably about three million – I’ve tried to stay awake all night so I would know when I needed to wee. But that doesn’t work either. You doze off for two seconds and, hey presto, there’s a trickle down your leg and a big wet patch under your bum.