Sunday Night Blues

Brush teeth, fall into bed.

Kiss husband goodnight.

Settle back smugly against pillows and close eyes.

Open eyes in panic, check alarm has been set.

It has. Relax.

Cast eye over clock. Great. Seven hours sleep.

Close eyes again. Rub feet together to warm up. Muse on coldness of bathroom floor.

Turn over into more comfortable position.

Try to empty mind.

Emptying of mind disturbed by snoring husband.

Open one eye, annoyed. How does he sleep so quickly?

Dig husband with knee, shifting him on to his side. Snoring abates.

Close eye, satisfied.

Become aware of dead arm from lying on side. Turn over on to back.

Wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. Wonder why can’t.

Ah. Feet. Feet now far too warm. How is anybody supposed to sleep with feet on fire?

Throw blankets off feet. Better. Much better.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Scratch nose again.

Realise sleeping position giving self whiplash. Turn over onto other side.

Better. Much better.

Try to drift off. Feel sleep creep up on self, but can’t quite catch…

Fuck it.

Itchy nipple.

Scratch nipple. Squirm at horrible scratchy nipple feeling.

Turn onto back. Cast eye at clock.

Great. Six hours sleep.

Settle down on to pillows.

Become aware of blocks of ice at bottom of bed. Ah. Feet.

Feet freezing now, pull blankets back onto feet.

Better. Much better.

Doze, intermittently, waking when enormous bang from back garden wakes self.

Burglars!

Definitely burglars!

What’s that noise?!

Burglars!

Oh. Neighbour’s garden shed door banging. Cats mating.

Not burglars after all.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Ooof, itchy shoulderblade.

Cast eye over clock. Five hours sleep. Respectable.

Turn over, snuggle up to husband’s strong back. Bliss.

Warm though.

Bit too warm maybe.

Can’t breathe now. Am suffocating self in husband’s back.

Peel self away from husband. Ah. Feet.

Feet ablaze. Throw blankets off feet.

Better. Much better.

Turn onto back.

Count sheep. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

Scratch nose.

Scratch eye.

Scratch forehead.

Where was I? 6, 7, 8, 9…

Narrow eyes as husband shifts and starts snoring again.

Try to block out. 10, 11, 12, 13…

Cast eye over clock. Four hours sleep. Doable.

Turn over onto side.

Wonder how one supposed to sleep when feet in so much pain from cold.

Shuffle feet back under blankets. Better. Much better.

Squeeze eyes shut. Stop it! Go to sleep!

Drift off and have disturbing dream about virtual pals on Twitter competing on The Voice with lizard Kian Egan.

Start awake, heart pounding from Kian Egan debacle. Make mental note to lay off Twitter.

Cast eye over clock. Two hours sleep. Laughable.

Scratch nose.

Scratch arm.

Scratch nipple. Urgh.

Ponder possibility of scabies.

Notice light under curtains getting brighter.

Turn over.

Become aware of feet being boiled alive. Skin surely flayed off feet.

Kick blankets off feet. Better. Much better.

Notice husband breathing funny. Breathing out but unable to get breath in.

Panic!

What’s wrong with him?

Husband manages to gasp breath. Mumbles ‘toothpaste on the breadroll’ and snorts loudly, settling down to rumbling snore.

Huh. Well for him. Fucker.

Cast eye over clock. One hour sleep. Disaster.

Turn onto back. Pull feet under blankets one last time. Better. Much better.

Scratch nose.

Give self stern talking to. Go. To. Sleep.

Wonder if there’s any point in…

FUUUUCCKKK….??

Alarm clock. Drag self from bed. Sunday night over for another week.

Posted by beatingmyselfintoadress in Uncategorized