I love my bed. Which is odd as I spend increasingly less time with it, yet it never complains, whines or moans, but welcomes me with the same soothing creak and clunk everytime.
But that loving welcome is not given for free, ohh no, there are unwritten demands, unspoken requirements which you willingly trade for those hours of gentle warmth and comfort.
The demand is subtle yet compelling, you find yourself drawn to it, powerless to deny. For what price, what cheap payment it is. A few extra minutes snatched from your day, a fleeting moment spent with a loved one, why no price at all, in fact you willingly concede to those gentle demands time and again.
Until the bedroom door bangs open, startling you and your guilty pleasure.
“If you don’t get your arse out of bed now, you can walk to the bloody station!”