Friends, Romans, Countrymen: Slice Off My Ears

Isn’t it funny how you can love someone with all your heart and all your mind, but not with your ears?  I have been awake since five-thirty because the Hub is snoring.  Have you ever slept with a snorer?  It ain’t pretty. 

Although awake so early, I have only been up since six because I gave him every chance to moderate his behaviour: I stroked his back; I cuddled him, which usually makes him hot and he moves away, settling down again without snoring long enough for me to go back to sleep; I tossed and turned and thrashed and harumphed in the hope of waking him up without having to poke him in the side and shout, ‘Oi! You! Shut it!’ but he was so deep into the Land of Nod I could have brought in a brass band to serenade him with Wake You Up Before I Go-Go and he’d have death-rattled through it.  I did briefly consider violence but decided against it on the grounds that I would not sleep well for the next twenty years in whichever prison I found myself in; I got up instead.

I had better confess at this point that the Hub may be a snorer but I am a super-snorer; I am so bad that every night he has to wear ear plugs and refrain from smothering me with my own pillow.  I blame Spud (another good reason to have children): I never snored at all until I was pregnant with him.  He made me so huge that I didn’t leave the house for the last month of my pregnancy, apart from Christmas Day, when the Hub took eight of us out for Christmas Dinner (him, me, Tory Boy, four parents and a niece) because I couldn’t reach the stove top unless I lay on my back on the kitchen counter and slithered along it with my arms stretched above my head.  Makes it difficult to mash potatoes, I can tell you; I have the scald marks on my scalp to prove it.

I have a feeling that this post isn’t finished; it needs a pithy ending.  I am so tired, however, that I’m out of pith.  Make it up yourself; I’m going back to sofa.

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We had to find a common phrase and write from it; I have read some fine poems over the last 24 hours that have arisen from the prompt: mine isn’t one of them.  I’m afraid it just didn’t inspire me.  It happens like that sometimes.  Maybe I just need some sleep.

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A Clichéd Life

At the end of the day
comes tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow;
and all our yesterdays
have been and gone.

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