Implements of torture

There are some things in my life that, since having children, have become cruel tormentors that seem to take pleasure in their taunting. This, of course, is entirely illogical since these things are almost all inanimate objects or abstract concepts.

Take for example a big, snuggly, bed. With a soft, puffy, Puraspace duvet. Just waiting for me at the end of a long day. A day that involved a commute, a busy working day and a difficult bedtime. A brief respite during The Hour (that I forgive for not being Madmen as it happens despite being pathologically and completely unconditionally in love with Don Draper)in which I marvelled at Romola Garai's gorgeous little waist in those early power bitch dresses. Where can I find them?

Following that I dropped into my lovely, warm, cosy bed and looked forward to sleep taking me in its arms and giving way to sweet oblivion. But of course, the bed started laughing at me, teasing me for being so naive when my eldest daughter made her first appearance at midnight. Not wanting her to share my lovely, warm bed I duly put her back in hers. Once again off to Planet Oblivion. For about 1/2 hour.

"Mummy I want you Mummy." It seems Milo was "talking too much". Course he was.

I returned to the implement of torture (still quite liking it at that point.)

For about 29 minutes.

After the 4th 'reason' for her inability to sleep, I gave up and went and slept on her floor. It was just easier.

I swear I could hear my bed chuckling. Along with all the spare time I used to have, joined by all the films I'll never watch and second book I'll never write.

So I have 45 minutes on a train and I could be sleeping propped up against the window, but i'm writing this. It's good to share the pain.


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