Rude Awakenings..

I slept like a log last night.

 That is until I leapt out of bed without first putting on the medical boot, thinking it was Bin-Day. (Are there cries in your house early early morning when you hear the unmistakable rumble of the dustcart and the scraping of wheelie bins? "It's Bin-day for God's sake!" we shout. As if Bin-day hasn't been on the same blessed day since time immemorial; it still takes us by surprise.We, using the Royal We, of course often rush out in our pyjamas to put the bins in the correct positions.)

The unexpected pain, however, sent me right through the roof, from which vantage point I could see clearly there was not a Refuse Collector in sight  and that it was in fact Wednesday.

Unbeknown to me, a whole drama, had been unfolding upstairs during the night..
At about nine-thirty yesterday evening, I suggested to Dearest that he went to bed with a glass of red, and the newspaper.

Just so as you know, we are not the sort of people who take wine into the bedroom. I don't know what even made me suggest taking wine upstairs. As you may recall, I have indicated a late embracing of Dry January, so I felt that last night was the time to break self-imposed Prohibition. Well, as a special treat for the other half; I after all, have my drugs to give me that rosy glow.
Off he went upstairs and I settled down to an almost dream-free stupor.
I slept through all the shenanigins going on above me.

Apparently, at three am Dearest knocked over a glass of water on bedside table which shot over the duvet. As he leapt up, flailing from deep sleep, he sent the un-drunk glass of red wine flying which then hit the table lamp and broke into smithereens. He jumped out of bed, got glass in his foot and limped to the bathroom carrying the remaining shards.
"What did you do next?" I asked aghast (and not a little surprised that I had not been summoned from the study).
"I slept on your side. But the carpet's buggered."
Well, now, I call that true devotion.

Before I wax too sentimental, Dearest did say before he left this morning,
"Now, I don't want you doing anything silly upstairs while I'm out. Like hoovering up the glass."
I am comforted that Dearest thinks that my improving mobility means that not only can I unload the dishwasher, and make a sandwich,  but that I can also swing up a flight of fourteen stairs with my foot in a medical boot,  a bottle of Wine-Away in my hand, and  a hoover slung over a shoulder...

Love him.