Have you ever been camping, and woken up in the middle of the night to find your air bed has sprung a slow puncture and your hip is resting gently on the hard ground?
Have you ever been a passenger in a car, where the driver has put his foot down sharply, leaving you feeling slightly queasy?
Now imagine those sensations blended together. Add in a gentle yet disconcerting sloshing sound, drink a bottle of wine, and there you are, on a water bed.
When I was growing up in the 1980s, water beds were the epitome of cool. They were a proper fad – suddenly everyone who was anyone, (i.e. no one I knew), had one, and I longed for one of my own. I imagined it would be amazing, like sleeping on a little boat, bobbing happily along a calm river.
It was not.
I don’t know if it’s all water beds, or just the one that we slept in, but there seemed to be a distinct lack of water. If I sat on the bed on my own, I could feel my bottom touching the hard bottom of the bed. (I do have a big bottom, but even so.)
It probably didn’t help that the bed and breakfast we stayed the night in was a little on the eccentric side. The couple who owned it were lovely, but you can’t help but feel a little on the nervous side when your bedroom door doesn’t lock, and outside on the landing is a shrine to a ghost dog.
Still, as long and uncomfortable as the night may have been, it’s done, another item is checked off my list of 40 things to do before I’m 40. I do still have a few spaces to fill, so if you have any ideas, please let me know!