Apropos of nothing at all, we bought a new bed a couple of weeks ago.
The previous fun palace had given up the ghost after nigh on 20 years of service useage, and we agreed months ago that it was time to upgrade. We decided (on zero medical or scientific grounds, it must be said) to postpone the acquisition til we were comfortable I wasn’t leaching any nasty chemicals from last year’s chemo sessions, and the radioactivity from December’s prostate seed implants had lost its first half-life and wouldn’t leave us glowing each time we turned the light off.
The moment arrived early in March and we slapped down the plastic on a stately new Queen Size pleasure dome. Naturally, it needed to be accessorised, so we included four new pillows and a mattress protector and arranged for delivery and removal of the old unit the following Thursday. Not to sully its newness with old bed linen we blew another $500+ on new sheets, pillowcases and a bedspread and decided to junk our old sheets or deploy them for occasional use in our weekender down the coast.
Thursday came, the bed arrived and we eagerly dressed it anticipating a sound night’s sleep with “minimal partner disturbance” in our freshly painted bedroom. The cloud-soft, latex-topped bundle of gorgeous comfort did indeed give a great night’s sleep and I woke more refreshed than I could recall in our bedroom for many years.
Now the cat has staked his claim on part of the bed, where he settles into as soon as he’s sure we’re asleep and repels all efforts to relocate or evict by pushing, kicking, hissing, spitting, biting and hurling abuse.
His claim is the dead centre of the bed. Bastard!
Macchiato is pictured up top. He has returned to his favourite resting place after ably assisting me in a painting project.