A letter to my bed

To my dear Bed,

We go back a long way, you and I.  You were the first piece of furniture I bought when I left home and I loved you straight away.  In those days, I spent hours with you, rolling out with minutes to spare to get to work on time.   At weekends Steve would drag me, protesting, from your cosy depths, he eager to explore London, me wanting just 10 more minutes.

You have been there at the most important moments of my life.  My children’s conceptions, their first hours of life.  I shall never forget the night after Dickon was born downstairs in our sitting room.  The midwife cleaned up, tucked us in and said goodnight, sleep tight.  Dickon, swaddled, did what babies are supposed to do.  I lay awake, mind whirring, invincible in my ability to create new life.

You were both a blessing and a curse during the long, long nights of settling newborns and breastfeeding.  By morning, it often felt like I’d spent a year or more in your wrinkled sheets.  I longed for more time, for peace, for clean, smooth, cool, linen and days of uninterrupted sleep.

I never rest as well in other beds, beds with polycotton and foam.  Your mattress is just the right combination of firm and yielding.  The feather pillows and duvet are cushioning and safe, like sinking into a hug at the end of a long day.

I’ll miss you when we go away.  Almost 300 nights of someone else sleeping in you, their smells, their habits, their sweat.  An uncomfortable thought.  I’ll be swapping you for a succession of none too clean motel beds, railway bunks, tents and hammocks.  Will I get used to sleeping somewhere else? Will it stop being a discomfort that I can never completely push from my mind?

After nine months of travel, returning to your comforting solidity will soften the blow of coming home.  I will dream of you while I’m away.  My lovely bed.