I am embarrassed to tell you that we did not get out of bed until lunchtime.
My excuse for this is of course that the previous night we were in bed at five, and then up again at nine, and that tonight we have got another late night at work: but in fact it was mostly because in our inner souls we are turning into hibernating bears, buried contentedly in a winter nest of large feather duvet and snoring dogs.
We spend quite a bit of day still in bed, because of working night shifts. The days start off at an odd angle. The time of writing is now six o’clock in the evening. It is dark outside, and the world is slowly winding down to bedtime: but we have got at least another ten hours to go, and so if I were a primary school teacher or a receptionist in a building society, neither of which I think that I would like very much, it is about the same as if it were lunchtime.
When we had got up and finished walking the dogs and drinking coffee I wrote some letters, and paid some bills, and then made my achievement for the day getting the bedroom washed clean again, so that we can be free of dust and fluff and black mouldy spores in our bear’s nest.
The day’s job was to wash the shelves full of treasure on my side of the bed, which collect dust the way a new driver collects parking fines, every time I come back to them there is more. This is where I store my favourite bits of unspeakable junk, the tin camel with the plastic jewels bought in Blackpool, and the cracked stone elephant bought in Morocco: and actually it all makes me happy to look at it.
There is our collection of seashells and interesting pebbles, mostly from our local beach at Barrow and the rest from holiday times in Goa. We swam in the sea quite a lot in Goa, until we realised that every local restaurant had shark on the menu. Barrow is not as exotic, but has the advantage of being cheaply handy for the times when we are in the mood for staring out at the horizon and imagining that we might, like the swallows, soar into the turbulent skies and take our chances in a quest for sunshine and adventures. Also as far as I know there are no sharks.
There is some china which belonged to my grandmother, who served home-made fruit cake on the Royal Albert that is also my favourite: and a glass goblet actually made for me by a lovely man who was once a regular taxi customer. On the top there is a wooden goblet full of acorns collected and donated by Elspeth at the height of our nature-loving-hippy phase some years ago, and some silver goblets given to Mark by his absent-minded mother, who thought that she might get them engraved but never got around to it.
On the bottom shelf there is a musical box bought in Japan during my father’s National Service there, whose tune has been a background melody to my entire life: and a cup and saucer with dragons on brought back from Switzerland by Dave Next Door, long after he had ceased to live next door, but who has enriched my imagination for years with his traveller’s tales of exotic adventures in his battered bus.
There is a chipped pot bought in embarrassment from an Istanbul street trader after a rebellious two year old Lucy ignored instructions not to touch, and a heavy copper bracelet worn by my mother at the time of her youth when such things were considered stylish, and donated to me afterwards. There is a dish given to me by a porcelain collector for my twenty first birthday, and a pencil, which bears the proud legend: “Albert Ibbetson. Maker of Fine Clogs”.
I washed everything in soapy water, and put it all back exactly as it was.
Mark went to the farm and hauled back a load of logs: he said he would rather do that than dust the bedroom any day, and our log store is looking full and healthy again.
My treasures are gleaming and bright. It is a nice thing to have achieved with the day.
Work now.
