I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning.
Not because I was bleeeeeaaaaaak, which is usually the reason people don’t want to get out of bed … or because they’re lazy or really good at sleeping or something, like my 12-year-old, who could quite happily stay under the covers until lunchtime.
She doesn’t get it from me. I’m rotten at sleeping in, always have been.
The fact I finally struggled out from under the doona around 6.45am when the dogs started barkings “Let us out! Let us out! We need to wee! Let us out!” is something of a miracle.
For me, 6.45am feels very, very late.
Well, I’ve been known to lie around in bed thinking a lot until 6.45am, but dozing until then simply ain’t my style.
I’m wondering if it’s my new pink bed socks.
My mum gave me bed socks for Mother’s Day and I totally forgot about them until last night. I’m not a bed sock kinda gal.
But I got home last night after a flash visit to DD’s place – I took him some curried pumpkin and lentil soup for his dinner – and I was FREEZING.
So I shivered into my flannelette pyjamas and my fuzzy pink bed socks and huddled under the covers. Sexy, huh?
Those fuzzy pink bed socks were miracle workers. I was toasty in no time: they’re all soft and warm and cosy.
I wonder if they’re the secret to my sleepiness?
I still woke at my regular hour of 5.45am (which sometimes winds back to 4.45am), but no anxious thoughts filled my head, despite the fact I had no farking idea what I was going to blog this morning. I just dozed blissfully until the bark-a-thon started.
It means I’m sitting here way past my usual 7am publishing deadline, waffling about socks.
I’m also fondly thinking of Pinky Poinker’s latest post. She’s just moved from balmy Northern Queensland to Mt Tambourine and she’s also FREEZING.
She wrote a very funny post called “It’s a myth sex keeps you warm, Jon Snow.”
She notes that she’s “sleeping with undesirably pilled, matted with dirt encrusted soles, bed socks on” and wonders “how anyone procreates in this sort of weather. I know people joke about having a nooky to keep themselves warm but how does one have a nooky without taking one’s snugly tracksuit bottom off?”
One commenter suggested “why not get a pair of kitchen scissors to the relevant areas of an op shop tracky daks bottom and save ’em for when the horn blows.”
Ah, you married folk are funny … and total wusses.
I went SWIMMING in the ocean earlier this week (she skites), so I’m Team Snow.
Though, as I suggested to Pinky, a strategically placed fan heater never goes astray.
Song of the day: Donna Summer “Hot stuff”