11 December 2008

Sweet Dreams

The solemn vows Accountant and I committed to on our wedding day were swinging in his favour. Whilst he seemed to be basking in all the ‘for betters’, I was up to my neck in ‘for worst’s’.
He lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, splayed out like a tubby starfish, his hot pink ‘sweet dreams’ eye mask protecting his delicate eyes from any disturbing lights and his ears plugged tight against any noise that may jeopardise those sweet dreams.
I, however, lay curled up like a hedgehog, driven into a far corner, Accountant’s knee wedged into the base of my spine, his elbow burrowed into my cheek. However, it was the snorting and disturbing imaginary chewing that found me reaching for the elastic on his mask, pulling it back like a catapult and releasing it with a satisfying snap. With no girlie scream forthcoming, I set forefinger and thumb to mega-flick before aligning them with the most sensitive part of Accountant’s upper ear.
Every night, without exception, I use these gentle ‘coaxing’ techniques to rouse my beloved and, every night he gasps in shock, peers at me all bewildered from under his mask and enquires as to why.
Keen to discuss, I begin, “Did you know that your snoring costs me, on average, 49 minutes sleep every night? ” He turns over, outraged, and recommences his snoring.
I was very pleased with just how far I managed to get his earplug up his nose before he was peering at me again. I took the opportunity to mention that lack of sleep can contribute to mood swings.
As he re-homed his ear plug, I wondered who exactly had thought co-habitation was a good idea and, with a potential 18,250 nights of this still to come, wasn’t there somewhere better Accountant could sleep? Was that new Travelodge on the seafront open yet?
When he awoke for the third time to question why I was applying sellotape to his nostrils and stretching them across his face, I kindly offered some words of support. “Snorers should lose weight and reduce alcohol intake.” I pictured Chickie’s forlorn face earlier as we searched for chocolates on the Christmas tree.
“Where’ve they gone mummy?”
“Have one of your special dinosaur sweeties instead!” I tried. Except daddy the truffle pig, had scoffed them too.
With that in mind, I took the opportunity to experiment with Accountant’s air supply, in the vague hope that a more lasting solution might present itself. Fortunately, inspiration hit as my hand hovered over his mouth. The hippo and duck from the bed adverts – they were an equally disproportionate couple yet always seemed well rested!
Online, I added one super king snuggle memory deluxe bed to my wish list and emailed it to Accountant at work, accompanied by a short prayer that a Silent Night, all calm and bright, might be mine, all mine, this Christmas.

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