I had some very strange dreams last night. In one of them I watched someone drive a petrol-powered wheelbarrow into a hedge and in another I was involved in some kind of plot to do something or other which involved making something look like an old scrap yard or something.
Wait, hang on a minute, I had some strange dreams last night? I don’t normally get much of an opportunity to dream because Peppa’s nocturnal activities don’t allow me to lie still long enough to get anywhere near the required REM sleep for a nice, leisurely dream.
And, at twenty to four this morning, that’s exactly what my brain told my body and I sprang awake.
Well, I say sprang, I woke up and spent a while trying to work out what day it was. And then once I’d got the basics sorted I started to listen to my brain a little bit more as it kept asking, over and over, where Peppa was.
Because she wasn’t on the bed, swinging from the curtains, climbing up the shelves or on top of the door. And, as I padded round the house using my Kindle reading light as a torch, she also wasn’t in the bathroom, her room or anywhere in the hallway. I started to panic that she’d managed to get the front room door open and had made a break for the freedom outside the cat flap, but the door was still shut. And Peppa was nowhere to be seen.
Which is why, had you looked into our bedroom this morning, you would have seen me – in the dark – patting my way across the duvet, looking for a lump which may or may not be a small black and white cat. And all the while, as you may expect from previous blogs, Carole slept on. Oblivious to the worry that I was experiencing.
And as I tapped the bed, eventually, I found a spot that made a very cat-like noise when I pressed on it. I’d found her. I could relax. She was fine, just sleeping under the duvet down near Carole’s feet. All was well with the world. Except that a little part of me was worried that she might have suffocated, or be close to suffocating. For which I blame my mother who would always say that if you slept under the duvet you would suffocate and, as I have always slept with my head out of the duvet and never suffocated, I believe to be true. So I had to reach in under the duvet and poke at Peppa to make sure she was still fully functioning. I was rewarded with two claw-filled paws in my hand.
And all the while Carole slept on.
And I went back to bed, content that Peppa was safe and happy. I could fall into a deep slumber and have some more strange dreams before I had to wake up properly, in a couple of hours, for work.
Or so I thought.
But what I’d done, you see, was wake up the beast.
I’ve learnt my lesson.
Let sleeping cats lie.