Monday was a beautiful sunny bank holiday in north west England. We spent most of it gardening. It was a perfect day for washing so I stripped the bed and the washing line was soon full of nice clean bedding drying in the breeze.
On Monday night we climbed into nice, clean, crisp bedding. It was lovely. The only thing that would have made it nicer was if it’d been ironed but sadly I believe life is too short to iron sheets so our bedding is never quite as crisp as my mother’s who has much higher standards than I do and irons her sheets.
And so it was, clean, fresh as a daisy, crisp (yet unironed) bedding. Until Tuesday morning when we woke up to what can only be described as the aftermath of some sort of massacre. Splatters of blood all over the duvet, sheets and pillowcases.
A quick check revealed that thankfully we hadn’t been gunned down in the middle of the night by invaders from another planet. No, the explanation was far simpler. It appears the flow of blood from my pre-bed blood test hadn’t been stopped with the usual quick lick and unbeknown to me had continued to bleed well into the night.
Those with a working pancreas might never have had the opportunity to track where their left hand middle finger travels during the average night. Let me enlighten you. Mine seems to have spent some time bleeding under the pillow before migrating to the top of the duvet, then spreading blood around the middle of the sheet before what looks like a very grand finale on top of the pillow.
The still quite fresh but now blood stained to the point of looking like it was used in major surgery bedding is now out of the very hot wash and drying in the office because typically, when I really need to wash the bedding, it’s pouring down with rain.