the marshes of Squornshellous Zeta

Sleep! I love it! it knits up the ravelled sleeves of wossname. It's therefore been a bit of a bugger that I haven't slept properly for months, being given to insomniac lying-awakes-until-midnight, random 4am-wake-ups for no adequately defined reason, and, most annoyingly, a horrible tendency to wake up at 6.30 sharp every morning in sublime disregard of the fact that even on a work day I don't really need to be ambulatory any time before 7.30. (I'm beginning to suspect that Hobbit may be fiendishly prodding me awake with feline mind-waves just because). I am consequently a little frayed. Also, I'm not remembering my dreams, which causes me active distress.

Part of the not-sleeping is probably because the road to reunion with the gym has been rocky and intermittent and horribly spiked by Dragon Age, and I'm not getting enough exercise. Part of the not-sleeping is probably angst. Excessive tea-consumption may also be implicated. But a lot of it is because the mattress on my bed is probably in excess of a decade old, dating back to the antediluvian period when friendly_shrink and egadfly were married and sleeping on it. (And incidentally accounting for the fact that it's an extra-length bed, which gives my toes wonderful quantities of wriggle room and has my vote). Thus, in a rare moment of active agency, a week ago I went forth and ordered a new mattress from a random but high-class mattress establishment.

Weird thing: I know my old mattress was ancient and too hard and not entirely ideal, although I was used to it and wasn't conscious of discomfort. But the morning after I ordered the replacement, I woke up with a sore back, and continued to do so for the week and a bit before the new one arrived. Clearly the simple action of arranging to acquire a new one constituted notification and permission to my back, which promptly went "Oh, right, now that you mention it I've been horribly uncomfortable and it's ALL YOUR FAULT, *martyrdom*." Psycho-somatic doesn't even begin to cover it.

The new mattress arrived yesterday, and was inserted into the bed with insane efficiency by clearly highly experienced mattress wranglers, who also took the old one, presumably out back to shoot it. The new one is a hard mattress (which I prefer) with that softer surface on it so your hips don't dig in, which means it's like sleeping on a steel-boned fluffy cloud. I had a wonderful night's sleep. My back is much better this morning. I confidently expect The Return Of The Trippy Dreams any time now, although the disruptions to routine and day-length of an Australia trip may put a dent in that somewhat.

But I also have to report: buying a mattress is weird. It entails wandering around the shop and solemnly lying down on all of the ones the nice salesman person recommends, contorting at his command into exploratory attitudes while he earnestly briefs you about technical mattressoid subjects. Lying on a bed talking to someone is an uncomfortably intimate sort of thing. The context in which you do it is really only with a lover (or in hospital, I suppose, although the vibe is very different). I could see a niche for strange pervy mattress salesmen, which fortunately this one absolutely wasn't.

In other, non-mattress-related news, Wednesday Wol has a stupid expression. Courtesy of stv. Because he knows me well.