Curling up in another Holly's bed last night, I mused on how recent events had taught me that other beds seem to be much better than the shitty buy-to-let furnished-flat one I usually have to sleep in. Back in my own bed now -- I can tell from the pain in my hips -- the same thought recurs.
I'd resolve "to sleep in more different other people's beds" but it'd give you all the wrong impression.
(Anyway, Andrew says we're buying a house in a few months which would, it must be said, fix this particular problem, even as it creates rather more.)
I'd resolve "to sleep in more different other people's beds" but it'd give you all the wrong impression.
(Anyway, Andrew says we're buying a house in a few months which would, it must be said, fix this particular problem, even as it creates rather more.)
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Luckily it's one of the things Andrew's totally oblivious to, rather than one of the things he's really sensitive to (the world seems to consist only of these two categories), so it's only me who's bothered by it.
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