I'm sleeping in a Professor's bed!
Well, it is an ex-Professor’s bed, or a Professor’s ex-bed.
I realised this at some ridiculous time last night as I was walking around the bed, gazing longingly at its giddy expanse of softness and electric-blanketed warmth, attempting to comfort a grizzling child who did not want to be comforted but most certainly did not want to go back in the Portacot either, thank you very much. I was musing on the obscure little ways the future can unfold: the bed originally belonged to a senior academic at my University, at whose lectures I avidly took notes (clearly, I took her units in the early days, back when I was eager and fresh and actually took notes in lectures. And listened. And never, ever, dozed off). In my learning frenzy, it would not have occurred to me that one day I would be stalking back and forth at the foot of her bed, near to swooning at the thought of soon being able to get in it. (I bet she never realised it either, otherwise I suspect I would be adding ‘Restraining Order’ to the list of strange things I have seen in my life). Here is a little known fact: academics are people too; and this particular one is a good friend of my mother’s. Hence my mother now owns the bed, which once belonged to the Professor but was a casualty of another house move, and which I am now sleeping in (although I have stretched the definition of ‘sleeping’).
I’m in it because of a monumentally gallant act on the part of my mother: that of giving up her bedroom – and everything in it – to Anna and I, and relegating herself to the single bed in the spare room, with both the dogs. (This is a classic example of selfless motherhood that I feel I must try to live up to, despite the fact I know damn well I am never going to make it). It’s a bold and cunning plan designed to allow me to relax, unwind, and catch up on sleep, sort of like a private little health spa in the burbs, but the plot has been foiled by Anna’s refusal to get with the program and sleep angelically or, more to the point, with longevity. I may have to start investigating traditional remedies such as laudanum, or a bit of brandy in warm milk: my favourite, for obvious there’s-a-whole-bottle-of-brandy-left reasons.
Despite the tantalising headline to this post, there is no one else in the bed with me. (Well, I am at my mother’s after all – it is most certainly not because I have not yet managed to find myself a suitable man-like object to place around the house. I'll have you know that I haven't really started looking yet). One of the very many reasons why this is a shame is that further to yesterday’s grim underwear realisation, I went out and bought new gear. This morning I put on my brand new white bra with brand new white matching knickers, neither of them the fade-to-grey colour that usually pass as whites in my life, and it occurred to me that despite the bags under my eyes, I probably looked about as good as I am going to get for the foreseeable future. Certainly the best I have been for a year or so. And there was no one there to see me. Except Anna, and it being breakfast time, she was none too happy at seeing the bra.
I realised this at some ridiculous time last night as I was walking around the bed, gazing longingly at its giddy expanse of softness and electric-blanketed warmth, attempting to comfort a grizzling child who did not want to be comforted but most certainly did not want to go back in the Portacot either, thank you very much. I was musing on the obscure little ways the future can unfold: the bed originally belonged to a senior academic at my University, at whose lectures I avidly took notes (clearly, I took her units in the early days, back when I was eager and fresh and actually took notes in lectures. And listened. And never, ever, dozed off). In my learning frenzy, it would not have occurred to me that one day I would be stalking back and forth at the foot of her bed, near to swooning at the thought of soon being able to get in it. (I bet she never realised it either, otherwise I suspect I would be adding ‘Restraining Order’ to the list of strange things I have seen in my life). Here is a little known fact: academics are people too; and this particular one is a good friend of my mother’s. Hence my mother now owns the bed, which once belonged to the Professor but was a casualty of another house move, and which I am now sleeping in (although I have stretched the definition of ‘sleeping’).
I’m in it because of a monumentally gallant act on the part of my mother: that of giving up her bedroom – and everything in it – to Anna and I, and relegating herself to the single bed in the spare room, with both the dogs. (This is a classic example of selfless motherhood that I feel I must try to live up to, despite the fact I know damn well I am never going to make it). It’s a bold and cunning plan designed to allow me to relax, unwind, and catch up on sleep, sort of like a private little health spa in the burbs, but the plot has been foiled by Anna’s refusal to get with the program and sleep angelically or, more to the point, with longevity. I may have to start investigating traditional remedies such as laudanum, or a bit of brandy in warm milk: my favourite, for obvious there’s-a-whole-bottle-of-brandy-left reasons.
Despite the tantalising headline to this post, there is no one else in the bed with me. (Well, I am at my mother’s after all – it is most certainly not because I have not yet managed to find myself a suitable man-like object to place around the house. I'll have you know that I haven't really started looking yet). One of the very many reasons why this is a shame is that further to yesterday’s grim underwear realisation, I went out and bought new gear. This morning I put on my brand new white bra with brand new white matching knickers, neither of them the fade-to-grey colour that usually pass as whites in my life, and it occurred to me that despite the bags under my eyes, I probably looked about as good as I am going to get for the foreseeable future. Certainly the best I have been for a year or so. And there was no one there to see me. Except Anna, and it being breakfast time, she was none too happy at seeing the bra.
posted by Helen at 3:10 pm
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