A fortnight ago, I was subject to multiple, middle of the night wakings by smallest child; a feature of my nights that were particularly painful for the entire household and turned me into someone akin to the love child of Adolf Hitler and Attila the Hum, before she’d had her morning coffee.
A new bed for Chippie had been purchased, to save him from the boredom of his eldest brother, whom he is forced to share a room with. He had, for a little over a week, been sleeping on a mattress – his mattress – on the bedroom floor which Monkey Boy had been referring to as “my room”. So frequently was he saying “my room” that the rest of us inadvertently reverted to calling it “Monkey Boy’s room”, further enhancing Chippie’s distress and feelings of displacement.
So, the bed – a loft bed – was purchased and erected, and placed over Monkey Boy’s bed. Before we’d even got the flat packs up the stairs … actually, now I think about it, it was