I'm sitting, still at the holiday cottage, waiting for my parents to return from one of the nearby villages or towns, arms hopefully loaded with some form of meat sandwich. Speak of the devil.
Anyhow, after a fully satisfying lunch of sausage sandwich followed by a nice cream slice, I return to desperately have a shot in the dark at what my train of thought was. Ah yes, sofa beds. I'm having to sleep on one where I'm staying, due to a lack of another actual bed. Despite it not being quite so comfy as my bed at home (although I'm sure that that's slightly down to a lack of a LUXURIOUS goose-feather pillow - and yes, I am being rather elitist), it isn't outrageously difficult to get a good night's sleep on it - although I suppose that's partially because my mind knows that I'll have to start revising when I get up; I always sleep better on weekdays.
It's more the pain of it actually being a sofa, in the lounge, that annoys me - not only is it slightly inconvenient to get to its bed state of being, but it also means that I can't choose to take an early night unless everyone wants to! Oh, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Then of course, there's the perpetual fear that the bed setting will go SNAP, it suddenly clicks back into sofa position and BANG goes my spine, and probably large other parts of my body as well - although I'm not going to specify what - as it becomes rapidly encased in a reasonably massive metal frame, with some barely-soft material in between that would really fail to lessen the impact. But then again, probably not.
And then there's the absolutely huge French window next to my bed, which, come the crack of dawn, nullifies the effect of the curtains, and great damaging shards of light somehow filter through the thick maroon (I know - blegh!) fabric and temporarily rouses me from my greatly-loved slumber. That sun up there really is a mean bastard.
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