Grumpy is night owl and freelance writer Lee Bemrose (firstname.lastname@example.org). He thinks it's never too late to check the travel arrangements whilst humming classic Monty Python songs like “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me...”
Being a late night person, I usually go to bed after The Dreaded One. I usually open the door and wait to make sure the coast is clear; sometimes she snores and it's usually easier to just hit the other room or the couch. Tonight, the coast is indeed clear. I climb into bed as gently and quietly as possible. All is quiet. I realise I really should have gone to bed earlier as it's only four and a half hours until I have to get up again. This is usually the last conscious thought I have before drifting to sleep. Will I ever learn? I doubt it.
My breathing stops. I squint into the darkness to hear better... and yes. Damnit. I've been ambushed. She has waited until I am almost asleep before starting to snore. It's the tiniest, snuffliest snore. It's actually quite cute, but I know it has the potential to grow into something quite monstrous. It might flicker out of its own accord like a candle in the wind, or it could turn into a raging firestorm. I have no idea why I decided to use fire as a snoring metaphor, but there you go. There it is.
The snuffle grows. I bounce about a bit under the covers. This breaks the snuffle, but not for long. It returns like the bad memory of a really stupid metaphor. I caress The Dreaded One's forearm and this also stops the snore, but also, too, as well, not for long. The snore increases in volume and as I focus all my mind powers on not getting irritated, I start to feel irritated. I know it's a lost cause. I now have less than four hours before my alarm goes off, so I gently climb out of bed and head to the living room feeling mopey and tired. I stretch out on my couch and enjoy the silence. I feel I'll nod off quite quickly and think that four hours is not such a bad sleep.
Suddenly, I don't know what the hell happens. One second I am completely asleep, the next I have been hit on the head by something. Have I been punched? Am I being smothered? I can't breathe, which would indicate that some form of smotherage is taking place.
“Mmmmmppphmm!” I declare hysterically. “Mmmnnnthhhhppphhh?” I enquire hysterically.
The thing jumps off my head and I realise with bewilderment that The Dreaded One just totally sat on my head.
“Oh Grumpy, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean... did I sit on your head?”
“Totally. You totally sat on my head. Why did you do that?”
I'm in full-blown sulky, hard-done-by mode now. I've gone to great lengths to not disturb her sleep, and she returns the favour by sitting on my head.
“What's going on?” I demand, indulging in a little justified grumpiness. “What are you doing?”
“I'm so sorry... I was just checking on the travel arrangements...” She points to the corner of the room where I suppose the travel arrangements are supposed to be. Confusion starts to spread across her face, although it's not a patch on the confusion I was wracked by less than two minutes ago.
“You what? Travel arrangements?” I fondle my nose. It doesn't feel broken.
“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure the travel...” She is squinting into the corner.
“Ah. The travel arrangements. I see. You're not quite awake yet, are you?”
“I'm not... sure.”
She looks adorable. I wrap my arms around her and she snuggles in. “Come on, lets give this sleep thing another go.”
I ooze charm and chivalry, but I am thinking, no one sits on my head and gets away with it - I am sooo going to get her for this.