When I moved to the UK, most of my furniture ended up either in a couple of houses in Cambridge, or in a big yellow
skipdumpster outside my house. Given that The Special One was left in charge of bossing around the movers and deciding what did and didn’t survive the cull from my erstwhile bachelor pad, it’s perhaps not surprising that there’s little left from my days as a man gadding about London Town.
The one thing that did make the trip however is my pride and joy of a bed. As the first bed I’d ever bought, I spent many hours painstakingly, erm, lazing in a horizontal manner on dozens of options to ensure that I got the most comfortable sleeping environment for my money. And while I was prepared to leave the UK behind having met The Special One, there was no way that there was going to be a parting of the ways with my beloved bed.
The problem is that while in Britain my bed would be considered a palatial kingsize theat
reer of snoozing delight, in the United States it’s suddenly like something that you’d put in a dolls house. There is no doubt in my mind that Richey Manic, Jimmy Hoffa, Lord Lucan and Shergar are not missing, but instead they climbed into an American bed somewhere and still haven’t managed to find their way out. Not necessarily together, although I wouldn’t rule anything out.
Every time I insist to The Special One that my bed is a king, the derisive snort I receive resembles the kind of noise I occasionally hear when cruise ships are leaving harbour at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Apparently there is such a thing as a California king, which is conceivably large enough to play a couple of sets of volleyball on. A wife could be cheating on her husband while he slept in the same bed, and the husband would be none the wiser. By comparison, my British kingsize is practically an American single.
None of this would be a problem, of course, if it wasn’t for The Special One. By day, she’s a perfectly normal woman. But when she’s in the deepest of sleeps, she twitches like a retired breakdancer who just can’t let go of former glories. Occasionally I have to wake her, just to make sure that she’s not having a stroke. At the same time, when she’s dreaming, she regularly issues forth grunts and groans as if knocking a vicious forehand volley across the net at Wimbledon. It’s like going to bed with Monica Seles and the Rocksteady Crew at the same time. And to be fair, if we were in a Californian king, we’d probably have room for all of them.
Still, given the economic climate, we’re sticking with what we’ve got for the moment and I’ll put aside my feelings of inferiority. After all, they say that size doesn’t matter in the bedroom, right?