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Bed Bugged

I seem to have fallen into an old habit. I suppose itís not necessarily a horrible one, but itís one that I think keeps me from being a member of civilized society.

No, itís not taking up smoking again in solidarity against the upcoming ban. Although I do have a bit of a sore throat this morning which is, no doubt, somewhat attributable to last nightís Marlboro Lights.

So what is this new private praxis?

I confess. I have become a sofa sleeper.

With two perfectly functional and serenely comfortable beds in this flat, I have woken up this morning, yet again, on the couch. A couch that, I might add, whose cushions only span sixty inches. For those of you keeping score at home, thatíd be fourteen inches less than this humble scribeís once-lanky frame.

One would think stretching out on a king-size mattress would be more comfortable. Or if that particular slumber sanctuary is less than soporific due to a certain someoneís snoring, the queen-sized cradle in the blissful back bedroom is surely a viable option.

But no, like a little kid who canít keep his eyes open but swears heís not tired, I stay in the living room and curl up with a cushion, waiting to hear how tonight's crime drama will be resolved. Iíll go to be in ten more minutes Ö I promise. And no, I wonít put the magic quilt over me, because if Iím that cold, I should just go get under the covers.

Idiot.

So now itís morning. Iím in the clothes I wore to work yesterday, drinking a cup of tea and wondering if my back would feel any better had slept in the bed (which, on the plus side, doesnít need making today). I had the whole flat to myself last night Ö youíd think Iíd have taken advantage of more than the living room.

Oh well. We move on.

CB arrives this afternoon, and Peter comes on Monday for his monthly visit. Oops, Iíve double-booked the B&B.

Thatís okay. Larryís out of town for the week. CB can have my bed on Monday night and Iíll be perfectly happy to sleep on the sofa.