24th Feb 2010 - Saturday
ANATOMY OF A MOVE – Third Blog
Subtitled: THE BED ¸.•´¸.•*¨`*. ¸.•*¨*.¸¸.•*¨`*.¸.☆
CHOICES, CHOICES, CHOICES
As you know, I’ve been sleeping on a 2 seater sofa. That was because, at the old house in the village near Oxford, the bed I used to sleep on was owned by the landlord. I couldn’t take it with me on my move to a little village near Malvern – even if I had wanted to; which I didn’t because it was a small, over-sprung single bed that a generously proportioned Diva such as myself has fallen out of on more than a couple of occasions. There I am, just turning over to get from the bad hip back to the good hip and Ploink! Sprroinng! CRASH!
It is undignified in the way that a beetle lying on its back, legs churning the air, is not filled with stately magnificence – such as I like to be.
And let me tell you that it is also most upsetting to one’s natural sleep rhythms to have to stay awake for fear of ending up on the floor yet again.
With moving to an unfurnished house I had the opportunity of buying my first ever English bed. I decided to upgrade to a larger bed. I pored over catalogues online. There was so much to take into account that I couldn’t make a snap decision on account of my mind was reeling. For days I dithered over:
- Bed base: divan or a Bed frame?
- Divan: no storage drawers, two storage drawers, four storage drawers, end storage, end-side storage (yes, that one was way beyond me) or a combination of side and end. Huh?
- Bed frame: Wood, what kind? Metal, stainless steel or brass? A combination?
- Matress:
- Springs: Open coil, Continuous spring, Zoned spring, Pocket spring.
- Covering: Memory foam, kapok, latex (Now here I was surprised because I never associated latex with peaceful sleep.)
- Size: The sizes had been re-jigged. We now have: the Small Single (previously aka Infants), Single, Three quarters (aka Small Double), Double, King (previously a Queen. What can I say, must have been hormonal), SuperKing (previously only a King. Shame!)
Finally, the jibbering indecision ended. I felt I had managed to master all the double-speak about:
* “dream-filled night’s sleep” (we all dream, so what?) and,
* “offers support where it’s needed” (tell me now, where isn’t it needed?) and
* “dust mite-free properties” (I should JOLLY well hope that a brand new product is going to be free of dust mites.)
I decided on a divan base with 4 drawer storage. A zoned spring and memory foam mattress offered the best value-for-money support for the creaking pelvis. And now it was just the size.
Obviously Small Single and Single were to be sniffed at. Been there, done that, got the dents and bruises, but thankfully not the video.
I looked at the Three-quarter bed. Mmm! 3’6” of space. I could almost feel the peace that a good night’s sleep would bring. Yes, it would have to be the Three-quarter bed (sorry, I’m trying very hard to be politically correct in my adopted country, I mean the Small Double).
But wait! Maybe, because the new bedroom is a nice size, just maybe, I might run to a double bed 4’6”. To be able to turn over several times without falling out of bed. Oooh! Wouldn’t that truly be bliss? Yes, the Double.
But the word “Double” made me think that double beds are made to be shared with another warm body. And if another warm body were to grace my pristine and virginal couch (OK! Yes, I am stretching it a bit there. OK! OK! Stretching it a whole lot then... and, that is not a pun.) What was I saying, before you distracted me?
Oh! Yes. I started to worry. If ever another warm body were to get lucky and share the nuptial couch, and if, say the warm body was hairy and sweaty, then one’s own fabulously statuesque, and almost hairless, sweat-free body might just roll over and annoyingly touch the other warm body.
Also, I regret to report that I have shared my nuptial couch with arm-flingers and leg-spasmers. In cases such as these it is important to be able to achieve physical distance from the assaulting body-parts.
So, I opted for the King-sized. I placed an order and committed a large chunk of birthday and Xmas presie savings to Argos. The order was confirmed and delivery was set for four week’s time. There was just one small little hic-cup that I could see... remember I told you about the big wardrobes when Aitch disappointed me? (See previous blog)
Well, both wardrobes had been re-assembled in the bedroom. One small hic-cup might be (I have a tape-measure, actually there was no “might be” about the hic-cup; there was a large amount of “would be” about it) that there wasn’t enough room to have a King-sized bed put into the same bedroom without one of the wardrobes having to leave. But all the commercial delivery men had always been so sweet when faced with a disabled old woman that I was confident that these chaps would be able to move the wardrobe first, no problem.
FRUIT, FLOWERS AND PATIENCE CATERPILLARS
What made the four week wait a tad easier was the hours I spent trawling through catalogues for bedding. I had been eminently sensible about it and decided on something in Raspberry El Cheapo from Argos and an elegant Aubergine Cheapa-Cheapo ex Tesco.
I was actually Ninja Stixxing towards the Argos in the Malvern Newlands Shopping Centre when I dotted past “Next” and caught their window display. From that second I was lost.
Oh! I was lost. It was love, it was desire, and it was pure passion. A surge of longing swept over me such as few mere men have ever managed to evince. There it was, lying there in the window. It whispered to me, “You know you want me. Take me home NOW.”
I nearly fell over, so quickly did I swivel into the shop that it was a second before the Ninja Stix caught up with me. I went in to “Next” and spent a sinful amount of birthday and Xmas Presie savings on the non-iron cream polycotton with the satin appliquéd scarlet poppies duvet cover, with red sheets, and several matching, toning cushions and pillow covers. Within the Poppies’ colours are all those lovely fruit and flowers: Raspberry, Red Cherry, Aubergine, Blackcurrant, Vanilla, Strawberry, Blackberry, and hints of Tomato.
I amazed myself. I seldom get that enthusiastic about mere possessions. Yet here was I, more enthusiastic about my Bedding-Set than I had been about my first husband. Now two weeks after first sleeping within those warm, glowing red sheets and gorgeous duvet cover I am even more excited than I was with my first husband after the same amount of time had elapsed.
What can I say? I guess some feelings are just destined to last because they are SO very satisfactory... and some are hairy, sweaty and just suffer from "physical exertion" (that's "PE", know what I mean?.
In the interim, I had to sleep somewhere for the next month, and the recent purchase of a 15th-hand two-seater sofa meant that was what I was going to sleep on until the delivery of my first (and probably only) English bed.
Using the 2 seater was not easy. It led to an almost permanent crick in my neck and the beginnings of premature dowager’s hump. I didn’t get much sleep. And I looked forward to the delivery of “The King” (as I began to think of him, I mean “it”) much like a child looks forward to Birthdays, End of Term and Christmas.
My excitement was at fever-pitch. I just managed to restrain myself from making a kid’s “Term Ends” caterpillar to put up on the ‘fridge. Each impatiently awaited day would be marked with the removal of one of the caterpillar’s segments, until finally all that was left was the last day, shaped like a gorgeous butterfly – a reward for such excruciating patience.
SUCH EXCITEMENT ENDED IN TEARS
Finally the day dawned. I was up early. Delivery could be expected any time between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. Time passed. I spent the time unwrapping the bedding, feasting my eyes on those colours.
More time passed until, after lunch, I was in a frenzy of expectation for the feel of lying on a proper, large, comfortable bed. I could almost taste the refreshing night’s sleep I was going to have.
My cell phone rang. It was an unknown number (00-44-7921-755254 or 07921 755 254 from inside the UK) It was the driver’s assistant letting me know that they were only half an hour away. I was delighted. I told him how lovely, and warned him about the GPS leading him astray to a nearby caravan park. I asked him to go to our local village and turn left at the duck-pond.
Half an hour later the same number rang. It was the same man to say that they had just gone straight past the duck pond. I explained again, battling the noise that our bad mobile signal generates. (I’ve heard of white noise, but if I had to give this noise a colour it would be an angry yellow) Finally I heard the sound of a truck rumbling down our long, single-track farm road. I Ninja-stixxed in double quick time (for me) downstairs and waited for them in the stable yard.
They arrived and I explained that there was just the little problem of the wardrobe to be moved first. As I told them, I clutched the £10 note in my pocket that I had secreted there in order to be able to tip them once they had finished. The driver was quite pleasant and said that wasn’t a problem. The assistant was a bit shirty about it, saying they were not supposed to do these things, but he was quelled by a look from the driver.
They came up and moved the cupboard out of the bedroom and across 6ft of very wide vestibule, where it is out of the way, and fits rather well. Then the assistant brought up one half of the divan base and stood it on end in the bedroom. They both brought the mattress up, and stood it up against the wall. And the assistant came up with the papers and the other half of the divan base. While I signed the papers, that half base was also stood on end in the bedroom.
I waited for the two bases to be laid flat for me to remove the wrapping so we could lay the mattress down on the base. But the assistant was disappearing down the passage towards the stairs. I called out, “Sorry, please would you just help me lay things flat?”
And, without breaking stride he shouted back, “No time – and we aren’t supposed to do that anyway.”
I stood there, clutching the £10 note in my hand. Exit Assistant stage-left, without a backward glance at the woman standing there: mouth open; leaning on her walking sticks.
I was in shock: left with two divan bases and a King-size mattress stood on end. Shattered dreams of a good night's sleep. I know from bitter experience that my twisted pelvis doesn’t do lifting – or lowering. I walked back to the bedroom and looked at everything. So near and yet so far.
Maybe if I could call the Argos Delivery centre they could send the men back to help? Feverishly I dialled their number and went through all the usual “options and presses” until I got through to the customer care line.
I explained what had happened. I asked if they could do something to help me? Without a pause the Customer Care assistant, Christine, announced that it was not Argos policy to assist customers lay out beds. It was my responsibility. I explained that because of an accident, I was disabled and couldn’t do it myself. I also had just moved to the area and knew very few people (certainly very few able-bodied people, and also I have my pride) The woman just said, “We can arrange to cancel the sale and have the bed collected. Then you can see if you can find another store who will erect it for you.”
Well, I’m ashamed to say that I burst into tears. Tears of rage and self-pity. I was beyond coherent. Salt water and slimy stuff were blossoming out of my eyes and nostrils respectively. (Yes, good thing it wasn’t the other way around, you’re thinking.) My voice had disappeared and all I could make was that horrid, “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” sound.
I put the phone down and put my head in my hands. All the bu***r-ups over the last few weeks just overwhelmed me: the phantom tenant; the debacle of the move; Aitch’s self-serving profiteering at the expense of a friend; the weeks of that b****y 2 seater sofa with sleepless nights and the crick in my neck. All just too much. I was overwhelmed with the sheer unfairness of life. I sobbed on for a while.
I got up, went to the bedroom door and shut it. I couldn’t bear to look at the bits of my bed. It would stay shut. Forever, if need be.
MEET PATRICIA, AND BE HUMBLED
I’m pen-friends with a number of great people on Facebook, the most recent one of whom is Patricia. (I have no idea if that is grammatically correct ... and do not bother to write in to let me know.) I didn’t know much about her, but she happened to contact me during yet another sleepless night on the small sofa with the bedroom door remaining firmly shut.
She asked why I was awake at such an inhospitable hour and I just let her have the whole story. I went into auto rant. You couldn’t have stopped me if you had let fly with a bucket of cold water. I was up on the High Horse and it had run away with me. I’m not usually self-pitying, but this time there was an ocean of it and the horse was galloping straight in towards the white horses in the crashing surf. I felt I might just drown.
My fingers flew over the keyboard. I ended up with saying that I didn’t ask to be crippled by some young idiot who ran a red traffic light. How I wished that, in that nanosecond before he put his foot down and tried to race through (the light had been red for a while, so he knew what he was doing) he had thought better of it. I did an emergency brake. In the nanosecond afterwards, when half my pelvis and spine were shooting forward at speed, twisting and rebounding back, his life was saved. But mine was changed forever.
Back to my Oh!-so-eagerly-anticipated bed. Maybe I would ask friends who popped around? But that could take days because I’d wait for them to pop around, rather than ask specifically. I refuse to be a burden on my friends’ backs.
My only other option, I said, to get the bed laid flat, with the mattress atop it, was to sit on my bottom and use my feet and legs; hoping that the divans didn’t fall and crush my head or legs. (To be perfectly honest, here I was being histrionic and full of self-pity.)
Patricia replied with sympathy, saying she knew how I felt. She was cheerful and down-to-earth, and very kind. She offered to drive over to me (she lives about 100 miles away) and help me put up the bed.
She had also encountered uncaring people, and, as she was also disabled, she had had to learn to do so much for herself. She bet that she and I could sort out the bed in quick-time.
Oh? I said. Sympathies to her on being disabled, and what was Patricia’s disability, I asked?
Nothing prepared me for her reply, and the way it made me feel.
Patricia is a thalidomide victim and is missing an arm and some fingers on her other hand ... and there I was, bleating on about how I never asked to be crippled?
There is nothing to say. I know that you are feeling my shame. Pause a while, please, and feel my cheek-burning, ear-roaring shame, before reading on.
READ THE INSTRUCTIONS LAST
Patricia certainly jerked me out of that ocean of self-pity and anger. She inspired me. If Patricia sat on her bum and got the job done, then so could I jolly-well hunker down and get it sorted.
I went in to the bedroom, armed with a scissors and a clean pair of socks. I took the heavy-duty plastic wrappings off everything and I sat on my bum and wrestled those bits of divan down flat, using my arms, legs and head. Then I wrestled the mattress down flat atop the divan base. I felt very proud of myself. Triumph! Patricia was right. S*d those unfeeling Jobsworths at Argos.
I was sat on the bed, getting my breath back, when I noticed a bit of paper lying on the floor. It had been included in the mattress wrapping on the side facing the wall. It was some instructions about attaching the legs and castors for the divan bases: the hardware was sewn in to the divan bases and the base had to be carefully unpicked to retrieve them. (I didn’t even know this bed had legs and castors.)
I started to laugh. The giant Argos had got the better of me yet again. How cunning not to put a similar piece of paper attached to each divan base, why only the mattress? I hadn’t been able to read the notice because a) it had been left propped up with the notice facing the wall, and then, b) after removing the plastic, I was balancing the mattress on my head and shoulders at the time -and crawling backwards over the divan base.
So those legs and castors will remain sewn into the divan bases for all time.
And when I look at my bed, loving the sight of it, and thrilled at the sleep and succour it offers, I also remember how life simply isn’t fair, and I remember how inspiring and effective simple, cheerful courage in the face of adversity is. Thank you for adding another dimension to my life, Patricia.
Have a superdeliciously lovely day my friends, from
your Humbled and Inspired Crusty Canny Ninja Granny xxx
(¯`v´¯)
*.¸.*
copyright vested with the author 2010
