Regular readers of this blog may remember that Mr Penry suffers from insomnia. And I suffer from his insomnia.
Not so long ago he put a clock in the bedroom, not just any clock you understand, but a Victorian Postman's clock with a tick like the Gates of Doom. Now I know why the post was always delivered on time back then.... the poor bloody postman never slept. I know just how he must have felt...
The thing with his insomnia however, is that he cannot be sleepless on his own. He has to wake me up to tell me about it. So last night, there I was, snoring like thunder snoozing happily, when he woke me up to tell me he had a great idea. Irish dancing.
Now I'm not at my most alert in the middle of the night, but I did my best. 'Whaaaaat?'
'Dancing,' he tells me, in that endearing, little boy way of his, 'Irish dancing. I think it might work, don't you?'
'Yeah, whatever....' I mumble, anxious only to get back to dreamland.
Next thing I know there he is, lying in bed, doing all the leg movements like Michael Flatley and I'm bouncing up and down like I'm on a bloody trampoline!
This morning, I crawled out of bed at my usual hour. HImself? He's tucked up like a baby, sleeping tight, a seraphic smile on his face....
