acres

Most of my life I've had single beds. There have been breaks in this. My old Belfry had a peculiar 1 2/3 size bed. My mother sewed special sheets for it. It was an antique and, according to family legend, a rather famous relative slept there.

Well, as famous as my relatives get.

But for the most part, in Boston, London, St Andrews and Linlithgow, it's been single beds. The odd occasion where I've had a queen or even a double have been met with glee. I spread myself out as much as possible, usually waking up diagonally buried under a pile of pillows, searching for the ends of the bed with both finger and toe tips.

My new bed is a super king size. It's really two singles put together, but with some clever engineering, you'd never know. It's enormous. I get lost on it. And I'm not small. I woke up perpendicular at one point.

I didn't sleep well though. Acres of bed space and little comfort. It wasn't the mattress, or the pillows. The sheets are nice - Egyptian cotton. No - it was seeing just how little of the bed included me.

It was lonely, and I was small.

too fast.

There ought to be a law.

It should state:

If you are still rollerblading, hillwalking, skydiving and drinking cask strength whisky into your late seventies, then you're moving too fast to get caught by cancer.

Sadly, legislation, should it come, would be too late.

update

So the new home feels like home, and not necessarily new. But that's good. The air's fresh with a sharp tang of salt, there's always a breeze and glorious sunshine battles with torrential rainfall.

There are lots of people though. Tourists mill about, vacantly, asking for directions while holding unopen maps in their tanned, chubby hands. Families wander with brightly clothed children yelling and pointing with glee at nothing in particular.

It's summer, finally. Not sure for how long though.