I got into bed about an hour after Tobermory had passed out last night. He was lying on top of the duvet, so I snuggled under my bit.
“You have enough duvet? Fine, THEN CAN I HAVE SOME.”
“You’re lying on your bit, you muppet!”
After a bit of a duvet-related dispute, I extracted the duvet from under his person and covered him up.
“‘m awake now. You hit me in head with duvet. Why?”
I might have had more sympathy if I’d actually hit him, or indeed if he’d actually woken up at any point in this conversation. Instead, I got the giggles, which elicited a protracted set of complaints about my laughing at him. THis didn’t help me not have the giggles. Particularly when he started poking me in the side, with the stated intent of stopping me from shaking the bed.
I eventually calmed down enough to start reading the internet on my phone for a bit. Then his hand shot out, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me over to his side of the bed for headpats.
After a few minutes, headpats weren’t good enough, so he launched himself over the bed to me – literally, there was air between the husband and the mattress – snuggled in, and went back to what I assumed was sleep.
Five minutes later – “where Boomer? Boomer OK? want Boomer. You go check he OK.”
I knew as a fact that the cat crying outdoors was Gingerbum being beaten up by over-the-road’s tabby. Neither cat is ours, but apparently our section is the nominated arena for neighbourhood feline disputes. Still, it was easier to get out of bed than explain all that, so I did. Confirmed that Boomer was indeed sacked in his chair in the living room, Tigra was in the snug, and Chicken was in the bedroom with us. I hopped back into bed again, and resumed internet on my phone.
A few minutes later: thump. I reached out and attempted to locate my husband. I did not locate my husband. I located an absence of my husband.
I turned on the light.
There are very few things more amusing than discovering your husband has fallen out of bed, cuddling his pillow like a teddybear, having landed on his back on the carpet, with his head in the cats’ empty water bowl.
One of the few things that IS more amusing is said husband arguing with you that he is actually STILL IN BED, and using the location of his feet – still tucked up on the mattress under the duvet – as evidence in his favour.
I attempted to take his pillow away.
“You no take blanket!”
“It’s not a blanket, it’s your pillow!”
“Not a pillow! I in bed, is duvet!”
“Darling, you’re ON THE FLOOR. ON THE CARPET. ON YOUR BACK.”
He wiggled around a bit and stretched out a hand.
“Why am I on the floor?”
“You fell out of bed.”
“Can’t have. You must have pushed me.”
Helplessly giggling, I did eventually convince him to get back into bed, and we settled down for the night.
“I like hearing you laugh. Worth falling out of bed for a proper Mahal laugh.”