And so to bed...

If I could choose a luxury in this world, I think it might be to have a bed that doesn’t have to stand against a wall.  I know.  Call me sad, but that’s it.  I mean, this is my bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, right.  After all, doesn't everyone have a bedroom like that?

If only.

Why is it, that fitted sheets, which presumably are meant to make life easier, spring off the mattress and rumple up in an impenetrable mass as soon as the human form is inserted between them and the duvet cover?  Add a husband, a couple of cats, a child or two (or three or more) and – although strenuous efforts are made to dissuade same – a dog or so, then the whole affair resembles something by Tracey Emin in the Tate.  Only I’d like to sleep in mine.  After everyone’s joined us – on a Saturday morning, say – and we’ve added tea, toast and marmalade to the mix, our bed resembles something that would interest the Ordinance Survey as a demonstration of contour mapping.

Have you noticed, how on the How To Have A Perfect House TV programmes, however inept the householder is, however much in need of an urgent brain-cell transfusion, their bedrooms always have enough room to have the bed well clear of the wall.  That’s because, no matter how suave, competent or cheerful the presenter is (And yes, Anthea Turner, I’m thinking of you) kneeling on one part of the sheet whilst attempting to raise the mattress to tuck the corner underneath the end makes you look a prat. 

Single beds aren’t a problem, but double beds… Well, I rest my case. Only I can’t, because the sheet has taken on the properties of an independent life-form with malevolent intent.

 

Speaking of which, have you read that cracking ghost story, Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to you, My Lad by M.R. James?  That features a haunted sheet, and boy, do I know what he’s talking about, as Lee on The Apprentice would say.  The big moment is when the hero sees his sheet rise up from the bed and waltz across the room with A horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumpled linen.

 

 

M.R. James who also had problems with sheets.

 

 

 

 Sometimes I feel that M.R. James would feel more than at home in our house.  It’s perhaps easier to be spooked by linen than Tesco’s Value Polycotton (bit more tradition, don’t you know, with linen) but the principle is the same.  Perhaps the problem would be, for any Nameless Thing, that – particularly on a Saturday morning – its activities would go unnoticed.  I’m reminded of that grand old Northern song, where a sheet was more than just a sheet:

Mary, Mary, get out of bed, As fast as you are able.  Mary, Mary, get out of bed, We need them sheets for the table.

 Now that really is posh; I mean, fancy having a tablecloth at breakfast!

Goodnight, Children, Everywhere!