Heavenly Beverley : A Very Busy Night

Sunday, 21 October 2018

A Very Busy Night

As the spring weather continues to be changeable, I often find myself a tad chilled, primarily because I am not wearing quite enough clothes, particularly in the evenings. Yesterday was a good example. I put a load of washing out under a blustery and threatening sky. By the time I finished, my fingers were cold and I was unexpectedly very tired as well.

The Invictus Games opening ceremony was a bit of a dud and I decided to hit the sack. His Majesty stayed on the sofa and switched over to "The Battle of Britain". Ye Gods. I felt and heard every thundering duel between the Luftwaffe and the RAF over the skies of Mother England.

Michael was completely oblivious that he had cranked the television to full throttle. Having recently been cleared of hearing loss, he accuses me of mumbling softly (!) if he misses what I've just said. He became thoroughly alarmed when he thought I'd uttered: "I'm off to get my hammer"...when my actual words were "I'm off to get my camera". He may have considered I was still shirty at him after turning into a grumpy bastard at Bunnings the other day. And I have never been told I mumble in my entire life.

Back to World War II on the telly. By this stage, Michael had the volume at such a level that I could have sworn Bomber Command was in our living room. He had also put the Problem Child and Mister Pip behind the barricade in the laundry and swore he hadn't heard the Beagle's howls of miserable protest. I let them out into the house, reminded Michael to secure them when he came to bed and returned to the comfort under the covers. Eventually, my tiredness overcame the noise and I fell into a sound sleep. For a while.

I woke hot and itchy and "The Battle of Britain" was still raging within the confines of Station House. Having had eczema or neurodermatitis all my life, I find the rash flares up when I am overheated in bed. The other day, Michael asked me what neurodermatitis was. I replied that it was irritable itching brought on by difficult husbands...

Trying not to scratch, I rose from the bed and dabbed cream on my inflamed feet. Back to bed. I was aware that at some stage, Churchill's RAF was triumphant once more and the guns had fallen silent. I woke, again, to the guttural snores of a Beagle in our bedroom. Michael hadn't put the Canine Clowns to bed in the laundry.

Up again. The dogs were safely secured Behind the Barricades and I was making my exhausted way back to the bedroom. That was when I noticed that quite a lot of vino had been thoroughly enjoyed with gusto. By Michael, whilst co-ordinating all those skirmishes in the sky.

After crawling back into bed, I was distracted from sleep (again) by an unwelcome and unpleasant poking in my ear. Perhaps Michael was planning a new career in audiology. I didn't care and let him know my feelings in precise terminology. His response was to roll on his side and blast an enormous fart in my general direction. Not to be outdone, I retaliated in kind.

Perhaps the wafts of methane rendered us both unconscious at that point. I remembered nothing more until I woke this morning, feeling somewhat out of sorts and longing to stay in bed. No such luck.

I may well resort to a sleeping tablet tonight...