There is nothing quite like being in your own bed. It really doesn’t matter if you are away for a night, a month or a year. It moulds to your shape. Your weight. Your movement. You miss it sometimes more than your family.

We spend a high proportion of our time in bed. Some more than others.

When we bought our latest one, Pat and I went the extra mile, or indeed the extra £400-500, to ensure that we got the mattress we wanted. Its glorious. A King sized heaven. “I love this bed” is quite literally uttered each and every night as we climb in and are enveloped by its comfort. Ooooooh! Mmmmmm!

We made a major mistake the previous time having settled on a Number 3 with a divan only to find when we got it home that it was a little firm. Very firm. Eventually looking at the label to see the words Orthopaedic saw it confined to bedroom 2 and us purchasing the current little baby.

Travelling for a year in 2016/2017, I definitely missed a few other home comforts. A comfy chair/sofa for one. This was one reason that we preferred Airbnb above hotels/motels. Sitting on a bed in an hotel room is not the most comfortable position to watch a film etc on your laptop.

And spending an extra couple of minutes in the hot shower, even if I had nothing more to wash! Just standing there under the hot water considering both the day to come and nothing in particular is one of life’s pleasures. Water hotter than it should be, eyes closed; a cascade across your face. Nothing better.

Move on.

We are away once again. Circumstances have conspired against us and we find ourselves needing to undertake self isolation in a strange house, away from our home comforts just at the time when we crave them most.

The bed in the “cottage” is relatively comfortable. Not quite so for my princess who has discovered a pea under the mattress. It does have a tendency to dip a little in the middle but all in all is quite acceptable.

I recall some shockers around the world. A particularly damp one close by Trivandrum airport in Kerala comes to mind as does the hardest bed this side of the Ganges. Actually in Benaulim, Goa. It is perhaps unsurprising that India hosts the hardest of beds given the historical sleeping on beds of nails by the Fakirs. The Fakirs in Goa certainly haven’t a love for feather and down.

 

 

Not all memories of beds are positive. Who can forget whirly beds? This nauseating phenomenon it seems is restricted to those of a certain age group. It develops, I believe, shortly after your first meaningful alcohol consumption. Quite at what age or in what circumstances the sensation dissipates I am not sure. Its just one of those things that ceases to effect you. You can’t look back and identify a specific time when you stopped suffering. You just know that you have encountered whirly beds. You didn’t like them and sitting up brought immediate relief. End of. Move on.

An Englishman’s home is, they say, his castle. I would add that his bed is at the heart of that castle. I have access to neither at present. So, tonight, as you snuggle down beneath your duvet. Please think of me. Bedding down.

Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.