BED TROUBLE
I show my bed to most people who come to my home. I have no wish for (most of) them to hop in. I'm just proud of my bed. I gush about its Italian leather frame. And I marvel about its hydraulics which allow the slats and the mattress to lift up, revealing acres of storage space below.

But last night, my bed precipitated a nightmare. Hoisting up the mattress to allow me to pick the next day's shirt, I heard a clunking noise. After several failed attempts at shutting the contraption, I noticed a metal plate had escaped from its moorings. It now hung limply from the side of the bed.

I scrambled into action. Drafted in my allan-key. And tried - and repeatedly failed - to fix the offending bed-plate. I gave up. I mulled the sofa as that evening's companion. But sleeping in a v-shape is not my favourite. So I dragged my mattress into my living room and slept on the floor.

My bed still lies in tatters next door. I don't even have the consolation of a night's heavy humping for my woes (though I did have a fumble or three with a frizzy-haired musician seven years my senior, but more on that another time).