The picture above is an exceptionally good representation of what goes on in our bedroom after dark. I fall blissfully off to sleep, to be woken by Mark doing his evening comedy act.
You see there is a reason why I am permanently exhausted: I never get a decent nights sleep.
Mark is a sleepwalker. A sleep-talker. A sleep-screamer. A sleep-DIYer. (Aren’t I the lucky one?) A sleep-smoocher (Still think so?) A sleep-eater. And on one memorable occasion, a sleep-window-cleaner…
Most nights we will have nonsensical conversations Mark has no memory of the next day, but at times of particular stress (he started the new job yesterday), all hell breaks loose.
Last night, in dear Mark’s addled brain, the health and safety people were coming round to check the sturdiness of our bannisters. So I awoke to find him on the landing giving the bannisters a stern talking to. (No, bannister, I don’t think you understand. We will be closed down if you are not sturdy…), then after leading him back to bed, there was a blissful hiatus of forty five minutes, before it struck Mark that perhaps I was cold and perhaps he should go to my Mum’s and borrow a duvet? Oh and had I noticed my Dad run under the bed? (Look Al, there he goes, Little George!!).
I don’t find it frightening anymore and I never even consider for one minute that anything he says after midnight is true, but you know it’s just a little bizarre to find your husband atop a child sized chair, changing the chandelier bulbs at three o’clock in the morning. A tad disturbing when he tells you there is a man downstairs and not to breathe a sound. Kind of spooky when he say’s that Finley is downstairs with him getting his own breakfast…
I shouldn’t make fun. Not even when he takes his imaginary dog for a walk around the bedroom. Because let’s face it, he may be deeply disturbed, or he may just have an exceptionally over active imagination. Or indeed, he may, just like Mum’s been telling me for nearly fifteen years, be just a little bit touched.
It’s a good job I love him.