No, not a reference to John Lennon's rather critical song about Paul McCartney. This post is about a subject that I've not seen anyone blog about.
I'm talking about bedtime. It's the time of day that you can go to your very own imaginary world. If you can do no more, at least you can drift off to sleep thinking of how things would be in a different world, whatever the daytime reality. But first you have to get into bed and switch out the light. This is how I get to that point.
First the basics. I live alone, but I sleep in a good-sized bedroom on a big roomy king-size heavy pine bed that gives me all the space I want. And I don't keep to just one side of the bed. I sleep in the dead centre, with two really nice pillows to rest my head on. I have a firm mattress slung over pine slats, so that there is some 'give' and it's not like sleeping on a stone slab. I can feel comfortable whether I lie on my back or on my side. I stretch out luxuriously on a white fitted brushed cotton sheet; over me there is currently a 10.5 tog duvet inside a plain cream cotton cover; and my head is on matching cream cotton pillow cases.
I live in a quiet area, away from the village centre and any traffic noise, and I have nothing much to worry about, so I fall asleep easily and sleep well. I have a tendency to wake automatically after three hours, so I go to the loo, have a sip of water, and then go back off to sleep for another three or four hours. This routine, which must be habitual, hardly ever varies. Oddly enough it's just the same even when I'm away in the caravan and lying on a narrower bed. I still have those nice pillows and cream cotton bedding. And usually it's even more peaceful, although you do hear the weather much more. But somehow, when you're snug, and ready for sleep, the pitter-patter of rain on the caravan roof is good to hear and quickly brings slumber.
But sleeping in a strange bed unsettles the routine, and so, because a good night's rest is so important to me, I try to avoid sleeping out of my own bed. I'm most definitely not the person to accept offers of couches or spare beds when visiting a friend, and I will face a two-hour drive at midnight or later in order to get home and sleep in my own house. And to tell the truth, it's usually a lot more convenient to wake up in the right place. There's always a surprising amount to do, and I want to get on with it. I never lie in. It helps that I'm retired: I don't have to drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, with the house unheated and cold, simply to catch a train. The central heating fires up just after seven, and the gentle ticking of the radiator in my bedroom is my 'alarm clock'. I'm nearly always up and having breakfast by seven-thirty.
To get myself in the mood for bed, I tend to stay up late, generally beyond eleven-thirty, and my going-to-bed ritual consists of a glass of cold milk and a small bowl of cereal (I know, not good for my waistline, but you can't sleep well if you're hungry, can you? And I've been doing this for decades). Then I undress, visit the toilet and bathroom, and get into bed. I may read, but most often I play three straight games of solitaire, and then lights out. No T'ai Chi. No hanky-panky with vibrators. I just want to get to sleep.
And to wear? Well, always some panties. For modesty if nothing else. I mean, what if I had to get out of the house fast? I don't mind the neighbours seeing my boobs, but I'd be embarrassed if they saw my more intimate bits. Of course, if I were sharing my bed with a guest, no doubt I'd dispense with the panties in order to be friendly; but that has not occurred so far, and I don't expect it to occur. I'm a realist: no man or woman is likely to fancy me enough to ask me for sex; and if they did, I'd be so terrified about the possibilities that they'd never even get a glimpse of the house, let alone the bedroom. Besides, I don't want to wake up with some other face next to mine, no matter how good-looking or caring or sweet they might be. I want a simple, uncluttered, no-problem start to my day. I want my pure space, not a sagging bed littered with bodies that smell of the night before. I have friends who long for that. Maybe the whole human race does. But not me.
And when I mentioned 'panties' I meant plain black Marks and Spencer cotton panties, and not silky white or scarlet directoire knickers with lace and ribbons. I don't do fancy dress in bed. But if you do, then that's fine!
What are they all for, anyway, alluring garments like see-through negligees? They seem to be props in a ritual. Surely the most seductive, most exciting underwear is none at all. I mean, if you wanted to grip a man's interest, make his imagination work overtime, ensure that he throws all caution and reticence to the winds, and get him into bed with you, wouldn't it be a great idea if, sometime during the evening, you dropped a hint that you had nothing on beneath your outer clothing? Just a thought.