This old Furlong has some God awful nights.
Last night was a ‘could not settle and ‘fighting the duvet’ one.
Could not settle involves removing a hair from the lip, adjusting for a cold ‘leak’ of air at back of neck, feeling another hair on eyelashes, a feather on the cheek, repairing the new leak of cold at back of neck, sneezing, suddenly feeling an itch on the shoulder that entails sitting up to scratch.
Settling again. Groundhog Day.
At last after finding hairs, finding air leaks and itches, sleep comes.
The night battle begins.
The duvet is puffy, heavy and annoying. It makes crunching noises as the feathers move around in it. It’s filled with the remains of what used to be living creatures come to life and cloying at me. It’s supposed to be warm, but it is HOT and noisy. The only time it looks good and luxurious is when the bed is made. It invites you to climb in on a cold winter night.
No more will I succumb to its lies.
It’s a trap.
Today I shall roll it up, securely bound with elastic straps so it cannot escape, and store it at the bottom of the linen cupboard.
The Last Furlong 