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The King and I

I had been thinking about it for a couple of weeks, going through the pros and cons.
“Always make a list,’ was Dad’s advice, “put down all the reasons why, and all the reasons why not. Makes the decision easier.”
That was all very well, very good advice for Prime Ministers, Presidents and Chairmen of the Board. But all I wanted to decide was whether to get rid of my king size bed or not. I know that in the wider scheme of things it may not seem like an earth shattering, debate provoking, headline screaming decision but, for me, it was a big step.
For reasons that will probably be a subject for another story another day, I have no King for my king-sized bed. There have been kings, good and glorious ones, rough and ready ones, but at this moment in my life – no king. Solomon was down his mine – digging, Wenceslas was out in the snow with his friends, Deep and Crisp and Even. The other three, when they discovered that I wasn’t the star they were looking for, departed into their own country by another way –probably very wise!
So there I was, lying alone in this huge bed and mentally moving the bedroom furniture around. I reasoned that if I resorted to a single bed befitting my solitary sleeping habits, I would have much more space. I could bring up my desk and I would be able to write my stories up here in the peace and quiet of my own little sanctuary, with my own little desk and my own little bed. There is, however, another pro or maybe it’s a con, that I should explain. My youngest son still nests with me, he hasn’t yet fledged, and this is the pro, he has fallen in love with Zoe. Hearts and flowers, cuddly toys, secret jokes, text messages in the middle of ‘Eastenders’, hook line and sinker in love. This is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted for them, and it’s a definite pro on my list. But for every pro there is, of course, nearly always a con, and in this case it’s me being a gooseberry in my own home. It’s not every night to be fair. Zoe, big-busted, tight black t-shirted Zoe, only stays one or two nights a week and, black-eyelined, belly-button studded Zoe always brings me a bottle of wine or some chocolate and Zoe, lispy, baby voiced Zoe always says ‘Thank you for having me’ but, none the less I am a gooseberry and my own room, my own space, begin to look very attractive.
Right – decision made. Out with the big bed and in with the single.
The King is dead. Long live the Gooseberry.

I stripped the King of his linen, I unscrewed his legs, and I manhandled his mattress until he was, at last, no more. His various parts I tucked away in an odd little alcove, and with the wardrobe pushed hard against them, no-one would ever know I had a dismembered king in my boudoir.
I put together the new bed in my life. It was minute, narrow and not much bigger than a child’s bed, a mere shelf. I re-arranged the other furniture, brought up my desk and, by the time the sun was over the yard arm I had finished and my haven, my sanctuary, my prison cell was complete.
For the following week I pretend I like my new sleeping arrangement. It’s exciting, fun, different, lonely, awful. I knocked the bedside lamp off twice, a glass of water over once, got cramp in my legs, an ache in my neck and had some horrible dreams. I felt like a first-year in a boarding school, a prisoner in a lock-up and, worst of all, a nun in a nunnery! Was this what the rest of my life would be like – a menopausal wasteland? I lay straight in my bed and cried with self-pity. Why is there never a King around when you need a cuddle?

Later that week the telephone went on the blink. I contacted the Telecom man who suggested that I unplug all the extensions in the house and just leave the main telephone plugged in. Gareth, in-house Romeo and love slave, was on his mobile to the lovely Zoe and was unaffected, and therefore totally unhelpful. Feeling alone and unloved and generally grumpy, I unplugged, as per instructions, the phone in the kitchen and went upstairs to my ‘single room with no supplements’, only to discover to my horror, that the telephone was plugged into the wall behind the mattress, behind the King’s spare parts, behind the wardrobe in the odd little alcove. My mood was foul. There followed several minutes of pulling and dragging, of stretching for and not quite reaching. The foul mood blackened.
I eventually ripped out the telephone with such force and hatred that I not only knocked a photograph off the wall, but also sent flying a tub of talcum powder and the bowl in which I keep my earrings. The result was a glass splintered, ear studded, Rose perfumed dust that lay accusingly over every available surface. Gareth, having finished his mobile call to Zoe, heard the crash and appeared at my door with his ‘Ain’t love grand’ smile, and asked if everything was alright. He was told no it bloody wasn’t and would he please go and fetch the hoover!
I crawled into my cot that night, nothing right with my world. I hadn’t made my peace with Gareth. I still hated him for being in love, for being happy and for having a bigger bed than me. The Telecom man wasn’t able to come until the following week and the single bedded no-mans- land that was my bedroom looked as though a bomb had hit it. The wardrobe askew, the King’s parts in disarray and his mattress bent and flaccid and useless in the odd little alcove.
I reached a decision. I would re-erect the King.
The King is dead. Long Live the King! And bugger the pros and cons.

With relish I tore the clothes from my narrow bed of loneliness and, with renewed vigour and urgency, had hastily dismantled the wooden supports of my chastity when Gareth said ”Mum?”
Of course the dear boy was right! Love hadn’t completely addled his brain. There followed an hour of shoving and dragging, of taking apart and putting together again.
The result of all this effort is that Gareth and Zoe have now claimed the King. From now on he is their domain, their realm, their love nest. Long Live the King. Long Live Love.
I, on the other hand, have a new bed that is not a King, nor is it a Queen, it comes somewhere between – a Prince maybe? It’s big enough for me to push my hot flushing feet into its cold corners and wide enough for even my girth. I feel better now, more myself.
I’m not quite over the hill and one day my Prince will come.